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I don't love you

I’m not going to tell you I love you because it is just not true. I don’t love you a bit, at all. I don’t even like you.

I barely look at you when you come near, I never pay attention to you nor do I know anything about you. Nothing, since I don’t love you.

What color were your eyes? I don’t know. Nor do I care, of course. I don’t ever notice how your voice’s tone changes when you come at me with sad eyes. I’m not interested in why your skin is so cold that it sometimes burns either.

That is what happens when you don’t love someone: they can be with you a day after the other in the office, drinking or crossing the street and they barely exist. Not her, not her lips, and not her hair’s scent.

I didn’t notice you today either. I wouldn’t know if your suit’s blue looked great on you, as if you had just come out of a Klimt’s painting, or if the exact reason why somewhere in my chest something broke down, almost silently, when I saw you waiting at the bus stop. I don’t know any of that; and I’ll keep on not knowing it because I don’t care. Because I don’t love you.

Find the original here.

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