But I actually wanted to experience him disconnected.
If a man tells you he's ending things being intimate is the best way to let him go.
You'll never feel more used than you do by him in that moment.
Men think they have us figured out.
They think we won't be able to get over them and that our love for them will haunt our hearts.
But what they don't realize is while they're looking at our Instagram we already have another man in our sheets.
Love is fickle.
It is the very extreme of emotion which gives it all the credibility of a teenager.
How can I possibly take any of it seriously when it has no consistency?
Just thinking about its ups and downs makes me dizzy.
What sort of truth lies in that?
He was pretending and we both knew it.
But he thought I believed him.
He thought my eyes were the same doe ones that believed everything he used to say under different stars.
But there was only one night this time I truly believed him and it was the night he first said I love you and water danced in the corners of his eyes.
But his love, like most love, was a selfish one.
It doesn't make it feigned.
Just a little insincere.
Because the heart can't want what it wants when it has no fucking clue about anything.
It merely reacts, like some chemical experiment where I'm the one standing motionless in a glass jar.
And after all of it, the passion and the love and the distance and the silence, I am still, and forever will be, his only other one.
And he is my one.
Of many.
Many loves.
And lovers.
And I am something he'll never be.
Free.
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