I don’t love you.
At least not in the way that you used to know I do.
But I am all passion and built up loneliness with a dash of nostalgia;
Could either be something you’d come back for or regret.
But I felt neither.
Satisfied, though we were, it felt nothing but what it is.
An act.
Certain urges, to me, are but some things to be released but not to be held on to.
So in the height of frustration, loneliness, and vulnerability, we have succumbed into carnality but nothing more.
I don’t love you, but it felt good to have shared a bed with you.

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