I do not profess to know what love is.
But I know what it isn’t.
It doesn’t hide itself away. It isn’t afraid to fall. It doesn’t pretend, or imply or infer. Or hold back, anxious and unsure, waiting for the promise of that
certain, sweet reciprocity.
Love cannot be mistaken.
It doesn’t manipulate or play or deceive for its own amusement, for the sake of its own ego. It doesn’t use someone up to distract itself from life or to seek out an echo of a love it had once before. It doesn’t blame someone else
for its own choices.
Love doesn’t think about its shortfalls because it only sees what it has. It doesn’t diminish or belittle. It isn’t selfish – it doesn’t satisfy its own wants over the needs of the other. It looks to what it can give, not to how it can profit.
It doesn’t find excuses and reasons to prevent it from realising itself. It doesn’t create barriers or build walls. In love, there are none.
Love does not question motives. It doesn’t assume the worst. It isn’t cynical. It doesn’t give with one hand and take back with the other.
It doesn’t encourage and elicit love for itself, only to demean and dismiss what is offered. It doesn’t patronise or condescend. It cannot thrive wrapped in a shroud of untruths and omissions.
Love, that is real, is eternal. It cannot be broken. Once offered, it cannot be retracted, nor can it be destroyed by any word or action.
Love never truly ends.
So in that respect,
This was never love.