When I tell you I don’t love you anymore, neither of us can tell if I’m lying. If old habits die hard, then bad habits die harder and this is on par with 3 packs a day. This is on par with a bottle before breakfast.
Old love tricks us I think. There is nowhere to put it. So it lies on the bottom of your heart and shivers. My body remembers you too well.
My insides light up like the traitors they are when you cross the street in front of me and it takes a full five minutes for my brain to catch up. You don’t love him anymore, remember? Or you shouldn’t, remember? Or you’re fucking stupid if you do, remember?
So ask me again. Ask me if I still love you. I don’t think so. But if I do,
it’s less like champagne and stars and more like faded Polaroids. More like the weight of the sun pressing down on the horizon every afternoon. More like the way you have to cut a tree open to see how old it is. Less like love and more like that detached way you love people you once loved.