Love does not look like the time when he let the words die in my throat, because he believed he was right.
Nor does it look like when he screamed at me hoarse,
because my heart was heavy, and my mind was racing all night.
Love is not when he broke a promise he made to someone else to kiss me.
Love is not when I was dying, and the ghost of someone else’s memory haunted him more.

Love is not, as my therapist says, setting myself on fire to keep them warm

On days under the sun, as well as the coldest, and most heartless of the storms.