What is even love supposed to be like? Is it fire, burning us alive, feeling so intense, so delightfully painful? Is it calm water, bringing us peace, calm? What is passion, if there is no love? What is love, if there is no passion?
I'm scared of the love I've got - of the love I give, of the love I get. If it's such calm water, what keeps it from softly rocking me to sleep? Can love be so lovely and perfect it breaks your heart?
Two weeks passed since I wrote those words and saved them for later. I thought I'd finish this little rant later but there's no point now. It wasn't the perfection that broke us, it was simple prosaic distance. No romantic reasons for broken souls - the dry pragmatism hurts maybe more than the heartbreak itself.
The fact that there's no heartbreak hurts too. If there was time (which I'm certain there was) when I believed this was it, shouldn't I be in pieces? Shattered? Yet I'm numb, sickly fine. And I disgust myself because of it. We fell apart so slowly, calmly, silently, that I missed the whole falling. And the feeling of broken heart that is missing is breaking me in a whole new way.
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