This was not love.
You have no idea what an amazing sense of clarity this brought me. And for that I am truely thankful. I’m not in love.She put on her clothes and gathered her things together. He lit a cigarette and stared at the door until she left. Not a word was spoken, and last night’s moans hung in the air like a cemetery fog. They both called this love, but this was not love. Love was not a one-night stand that stretched on for weeks. Love was not a bed hitting the wall with every movement and every gasp, only to mean nothing by the next morning. Love was not measured in twelve-hour intervals. But still, they called it love.
Love was not a phone call that served only to make selfish demands. Love was not when he forgot her name, but remembered the curves of her body and the way his fingers fit into her so well. Love was not when she hounded desperately for his affection, even when he blatantly held it from her. Love was not mornings spent in silence and nights spent in thoughtless motions. But still, they called it love.
