This is not romance.

Romance would be a fresh bundle of flowers on the kitchen table and an unspoken agreement of sharing smouldering kisses amid the nearest silken sheets. It would be half-filled glasses of wine, dinner reservations, and starched clothing. It would be the radio playing outside of a window, high school sweethearts, and initials chipped away on aging bark.

This, however, is not romance.

This is relentless, sadistic longings. Parcels filled with hand-picked photos taken prior, the faint scent of amber and musk clinging to carefully wrapped postcard envelopes. It’s falling asleep fifteen thousand miles apart, soft sighs over telephone lines and a hundred million miss you’s accompanied by small smiles filmed behind gaussian noise, cotton t-shirts, and hair falling into eyes because it’s half past five in the morning.

“No,” he tells me, “This isn’t romance. This is just love.

Agreed with everything until the last line. This isn’t love, this is the painful endurance of a fool who lives hopefully, in spite of reality.

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