I don't think I know what love is anymore.

You asked me yesterday, as we sat side by side, if I knew what love was. I did not have an answer for you. So here it is. This is your answer.

He said it every time. Every time he had his fingers in my hair and his lips against mine. "I love you. I love you so much." And he'd kiss me until it seemed we were drunk. Oh, I could live for days with the ghost of a smile after a kiss like that. Days.

But it would soon be forgotten, and I'd wonder for the thousandth time if we had become strangers once again. And I would hurt and hurt and hurt. And I'd wonder again and again if it had even happened.

So next time his lips feel like fire against mine, and I can hear his heartbeat as clearly as my own, next time I can see colors of the ocean in his eyes, he will say it once again. He will say "I love you. I love so much." And this time, when he leans into me again, I will stop. I will stop and stare straight into his eyes, full of what I thought could've been love, and say, "No. No you don't."

And even after that, I will fall again. He will kiss me time and time again. And I will listen to the lie, and let it eat me up.

So, no, I do not think I can say that I know what love is anymore.
But I will never stop searching for it.
And maybe I will never find it.
Maybe none of us will ever find it.
Why do we do that? Search for something we know is not there?
I don't know. I don't know why.
I thought I did. But I don't.
I don't know what love is anymore.