L'amour.

I miss love.

I miss the way it makes you feel, or the crazy things it makes you do. I miss the way, it makes you drop everything at the moment just to rush by his side, or to just lie together, not speaking, not needing to.

But most of all, I miss the substance of it, the part of love that keeps you so grounded, that makes everything so beautiful. I miss feeling the weight of someone else's hands in your own, that strange graze of course skin, the ability to memorize each and every feature of something you don't even need to look at.

I miss, being held. And to say that I miss it, is the understatement of the century. Again, it all comes down to substance. The course brush of his arms around your body, your head just fitting perfectly into the square of his shoulders, just the feeling of the weight of his arms around you, not the empty paper thinness that your mind conjours.

I miss, being kissed. Of one of the many things that comes with love, kisses, on the forehead, between your eyes, on your hands, between your fingers, on your cheeks, on your neck, on your lips. The gentle caress that surprisingly can come from guys with the roughest way of handling people. It's that pang, sometimes, when you subconsciously brush your fingers over your lips, and wonder what it's like to be loved to that extent.

But, what I miss most, is my care-freeness, and careless nature when it comes to guys. I've begun to realize how much I shy away, and how much of me I've closed up after two years. My frolicky nature has disappeared, and in replacement is a person who is so careful about falling for anyone. I don't bother to start conversations that end up with that satisfaction that sits on your chest for the rest of the day, and runs around your head when you're asleep. I've forgotten what it's like to carelessly throw your head over someone's shoulder, or brush your legs together, without feeling guilt, or that empty pit in your stomach that cannot just be filled with air.

The people I've opened myself to, have only betrayed me in a way that physical blows cannot come to. How could I have let myself be beaten around by people who did not understand how deeply these feelings course through my veins? Part of me had already been burnt out, by this estranged, enchanting, deceiving thing called love. Part of me had already died with all the people I've chosen to give myself to, because my belief and my faith in love, has only led me to a deranged sort of loneliness to fill the gaping holes.

"Love is terrible. But it's terrifyingly beautiful. Love satisfy the deepest aches in your being, quenches the thirst of the absence your body longs and desires to be accustomed to. Love never stops, and after a little taste of what it's destruction brings in it's aftermath, love never lets you go."

Weary, and completely used up.

Goodnight, neverland.