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.

Now it's clear to me
When I saw you after what felt like eternity
And you were no longer just a ghost of the past,
It was not you that I yearned for.
I was in love with the memories,
The memories that deluded me into thinking that you still take my breath away like you used to.
It doesn't matter now anyway.
Neither you, nor the memories seem so enticing now.
The butterflies are dead.
I found peace.