I used to love her. I really did.
I cheerfully listened to her most played on her pod, the Taylor-Swift and the non-Taylor-Swift ones. I read the novels she made me read, called her at midnight, left a message before I’d left home. I praised her dancing, her every move, helped her solve her math home work, with her projects, ate everything she’d left on her plate.
I walked her home, held her hands, wrapped her around my arms, felt her breasts on my chest, and kissed her lips, her mouth, her body.
We used to be together. We used to love each other. It used to be forever. Seemingly.
I used to love him. I really did.
I’ve willingly come to his house every now and then. I brought him food, his favourite pasta, served him with a fine dining, treated him on weekends, stayed in his bed for nights. I appreciated his music, how he gently touched the keys of the up-right piano in the empty room, how the notes reverbed on the walls, how they reached my ears and tingled them.
I stayed in his room, touched his face, caressed him from his chest to his navel, fondled his nipples, unzipped his pants, and knelt down.
We used to be together. We used to love each other. It used to be forever. Seemingly.
She always has been different from him: the way she impatiently demands and disheartens me with her apathy. How she abates my feelings, how my tears run down my cheeks, I can barely forget. I always feel nothingness every time she’s around. I feel solitude, I feel death.
He always has been different from her: the way he excites me and shivers me with “I love you.”. How he warms me, how my head rests on his shoulder, I can barely forget. I always feel a forever every time he’s around. I feel happiness, I feel life.
But he and she, she and he, always have been the same: called love, but short-lived.
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