Once, I thought i knew what love was.
The way he looked at me, head tilted, lips slightly parted about to smile,
the way i  played with him, with the innocence of a child,
the ways we kissed, delicate or not, ravishing..
and the time we spent apart were withdrawls of a similar sort
addicted woes and then
one day it all fell apart somehow.

Today the stares still exist, the lips are touched and the play is still as innocent.
but something is different in the movement of lovers and i ask, can it even be called that anymore?