Love is like

When I think about love, I think about pressed leaves. We stack things on them, we dry up all the life they could have had, we cut short what they grew up to do. We preserve them, delicately from decay, but they are never more than pieces of memories, when it comes down to what we have left. When I see leaves change color, I am reminded of my own mortality, I cannot pretend any longer that I may live forever. I cannot pretend that I will love eternally either. My whims are of the seasons, not the generation. I'm still a child, I just haven't acted like one lately. Sometimes I think about how much I cared for him, but it remains effortless, careless. I don't love him, I swear. I don't love anymore. Not like I did. Love to me is synonymous with limerance, its great fresh, but it wears off, so I guess I've never loved, only hated.