The lights are dimmed, the candle wax pools on his bedside
table.
Those three sacred words escape his lips, and I sigh. I exhaust those
three sentimental words for everything, I think. I say I love my friends, I say
I love my mother, I say I love his hair, I say I love the colour green. I obliterate
meaning in its repetition.
So instead I replace the sentiment with the truth. “I
want you.” And it seems, from his reaction, that he can’t tell the difference. Or,
worse, or maybe better, that to him it doesn’t matter.
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