Far beyond the truth of being in love is a tragic, a tragic we don’t by our naked eye see. For we expect that when we love someone, that someone must love us, repaid us the amount of love we pour, what if that someone doesn’t love you the way you want it?, does it means he/she doesn’t love you? Or perhaps, on the other sense, that someone you love afraid or hesitant to show to her/his fellow the affection of her/his love, which make the former, the lover, to be cold and have the doubts that the latter doesn’t proud of her/his and doesn’t love him/her at all. Of all this tragic, it seems that true love doesn’t exist in the association of lovers, it somehow exist in the metaphysical realities that when we say “I love you” and “I accept you”, we somehow mean “Love me as I love you” and “I have accept you, your good and not your bad”. The happiness of intelligent being that loves comes from being poignant, poignant in the sense that he/she love and sacrifice all, offer what he/she can give and speak of words much true for him/her that she/he cries when he/she speak of it. Yet, bliss, – for he/she love intimately that he/she inanimate the truth of being love in its naked form. Much of that, the answer to the preceding questions is “no” – he/she still loves you. People differ in their ability to show affections, which bring me to poignant sorrow – for I, like you, wanted to be loved. As I think of it in vulnerable miserable sorrow, hurt and continue to love – seems to be the truth I sought.