I keep telling myself that I do not, and did not, love you.
I keep telling myself that you were merely an addiction; something that I did in order to keep me sane, but even more so an indication that I am insane.
But isn't it weird that without you I am neither sane nor insane? I'm empty, numb, dead.
I keep telling myself that you were solely a habit; something that I did out of constant practice. Something that is developed in time, and will be broken down through the same thing that created it—time.
But isn't it weird that it took me such a low amount of time to develop you, yet even after double the time I have gone through without you, you are still the only thing that I do unconsciously and out of control, as if you had become a part of me? Darling, I can't break you without breaking me. Somehow, I feel like it will cost me a lifetime to forget you.
I keep telling myself that I do not, and did not, love you.
And if I then do believe so, maybe I know not what it is to love at all.
