a book with ripped pages
a recipe without spice
*** without love is hardly enticing
because you don't feel the emotion pour onto your skin
with every breath and he doesn't laugh with you when you
crash heads, he might call your name but it doesn't shake your bones
knowing that he loves you for everything you aren't;
*** without love is empty,
pleasing, merely, but empty,
it's an impulse move to fill the void
you deny is even there.
You faked your happiness for a year,
and now your ******* on a strangers couch
because you're afraid to admit you don't like *** without love,
you're independent now and it's all you speak of
so you don't need that kind of connection that warms bellies
and chills skin, you just need a strangers bed to sleep in,
right?

Until you can't sleep at night because you know that *** when you aren't in love is an act, one that will never bring the feeling of sharing yourself with someone you love back.