love don't live here anymore

Sometimes, when the air is thick and heavy with the silence of night, and my breathing is slow and shallow like trying to squeeze through a just too small tube, sometimes I think about him. They have a word for what It was, some fancy norwegian word with harsh accents and crisp vowels. Forelsket, they called it, “the euphoria of falling in love the first time”. I don’t want love, love hurts too much. I just want to be, smelling and touching and breaking and fucking and the only sounds gasps and moans. I miss him, but no, I don’t miss It. It ripped out my heart, my tongue, made my skin bleed and bile spew out of my mouth. No, I don’t want It back, I just want him.


(But really, I’d do anything for that kind of love again from him. )