Love, we know.

“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I’m sorry, too,” says he.
“I love you,” he says.
“And I love you,” I reply.
“Don’t be an ass,” I say.
“Stop being a stubborn bitch,” he says.
I cry. He doesn’t.
He hurts. I hurt him more.
He is an addiction I try to run away from. I can’t.
I’m the fire he is attracted to. Despite knowing it’ll burn him. Alive.
Love, they say. Love, we say.
Love, they think they know.
Foolishness, we know.
Desperation, we know.
That need to belong. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Emotions, as raw as they come.
Honesty, the kind that kills.
Confessions, the ugliest form of intimacy.
Souls bared, metaphorical nakedness.
Hearts thumping together, limbs entangled, scratched backs, pulling hair, hurried movements, closed eyes, souls alive. Ecstasy.
Love, they say. Love, we say.
Love, they know. Love, we know.

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2 thoughts on “Love, we know.

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