I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.
Clear. Cold. Empty. Like how I feel right now. Love is strange. One minute you’re jungle fever. The next you’re Artic winter.
Love is for children and dimwads.
But hey, I'm not exactly sold on the idea that love is, in fact, real. Will it find me one day, overtake me, infiltrate my life like sunlight snakes through the cold of morning? Can love thaw me? will it ever?
I want to know what it means to be in love. But in my dictionary 'in love' is indefinable.
Love is like that. I could crush her beneath the weight of confession.
Love is only found in books
I don't love him, & he definitely doesn't love me. Still, he semi-fills a gaping black hole inside me. That place wants love, maybe even needs love, but love is something I"m pretty sure doesn't exist.
The problem with falling in love is falling back out of it again, usually because you've fallen in love with a lie. That happens as often as not.
Love is more than blind. It’s brain-dead.
The truth is, I don't have a real clue what love is - how to find it, how to give it. Once upon a time I thought I knew.