It wasn’t love, I guess. An illusion at best. Some like a cross between an experiment and a test, one we both failed miserably. Maybe it was my own fault. Placing my lips upon the skin of a man who shared his bed, his home, his life with a woman already. But I understood what type of woman she was. Fragile, the kind you needed. But see that one night you’d been sleeping with me she’d been downtown on her knees for my best friend so I guess I just thought yall weren’t serious.

Maybe yall had an understanding.

I should have held my damn self accountable. Never really thought of myself as a romance novelist but you had me writing stories about some type of love I didn’t fully comprehend; and conversations that we never really had but had always been implied. Or something.

I guess I just needed you inside me to compensate for you never being around me.
I guess it wasn’t love.


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