This isn’t love.

How do you know when it’s enough? At what point do you just say fuck it and accept that this isn’t what it’s supposed to be? This isn’t good, it’s comfortable. This isn’t love, it’s convenience. This isn’t what people wait their whole lives for. People don’t write songs about it. There are no novels, no poems. This will fade over time until it just throbs a little and you only remember the poles of it. The good and the bad, but the small moments fade. How did you stay that long? How do you let it decay before you’ve even realized it’s dead?

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