Fling.

Have I told you I love you today? I haven’t. Because I don’t.
But before you worry, let me tell you something.
Sometimes I don’t love you, sometimes I don’t love anything at all, my heart freezes with whatever beauty it carries within and I don’t feel anything.
It passes.
Sometimes though, I love, I love passionately, but it’s not you. Sometimes I love a stranger, my cat, a new movie, a quality, a dress, a book. Not you.
It passes.
Sometimes I beat my heart up, I drag it to a public square after another, show the world how much of a disappointment this little piece of flesh and blood is. Whip it for all to see.
It passes.
Sometimes I loathe you. Sometimes I think of hurting you, I think of breaking your nose, or your favorite antique, or your pride. I think of stabbing your aura, of sabotaging what we are, of rebelling and throwing you off your throne.
It passes.
Sometimes I question my promises, I question my sincerity and the confidence with which I use the word “always.” Sometimes I realize we are fragile, I realize we are breakable, I get that we won’t last.
It passes.
But sometimes, sometimes, my darling, I love you. Sometimes I love you so much my heart trembles with your weight. Sometimes I fall to pieces for you, count your stars, run your circles, fuck your demons, wrap myself in your white flags and burn myself in your fires.
It, too, passes.

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