Speaking to me of love as if it isn't like the taste of new blood. Some part of you that is initially disconcerting. Some nagging ailment lingering on the tip of your tongue that longs for some form of immediate attention. Something that, upon further inspection, either warrants great concern or a soft breath of relief.
Speaking to me as if they understand it, or expect me to sympathize with their course of actions. All I can do is tell of my own. All I can do is shed light on the conclusions that I have come to, in hopes of bringing them closer to such conclusions.
Speaking to me as if anything I might tell them is of more gravity than what they could stand to tell themselves. Love does not listen. Feigned or not. It waxes and wanes until the one it is reigning over determines the extent of its use in their heart.
Speaking to me as if it is something that time can expel, as if it is wrong to feel for it endlessly. The reality is that it may only ever dwindle. Embers, rarely ash. The wrong is in believing there is wrong in it, rather than accepting pathways to allowing for it.
Stirring up my own feelings as I'm meant to assess theirs. Then to not feel inclined to feel so far from them.
Me. And frustration. And comparison. And scrutiny. And disconnection.