Not my kind of love
I don’t understand this modern love,
this loud, restless, proving kind—
where loyalty is measured
in passwords shared
and names displayed
like trophies on glowing screens.
If it is love,
why does it hesitate to call itself so?
Why hide behind the fragile word
“situationship,”
as if feelings are temporary guests
afraid of permanence?
What kind of love is this
that stops at the surface—
judging beauty
by the smoothness of skin,
as if souls have no faces
worth seeing?
They say less cloth,
more beauty—
but since when did exposure
become elegance?
Since when did mystery
lose its charm?
And this…
this silent rule—
that to prove devotion,
bodies must meet,
even when hearts are unsure.
As if love lives in touch alone,
and not in the quiet
of understanding.
No—
this is not the love I seek.
I crave something softer,
something unseen—
where loyalty isn’t demanded,
but felt.
Where presence is enough,
and absence still carries warmth.
A love
that doesn’t need witnesses,
doesn’t beg for proof,
doesn’t trade depth
for display.
If this is what love has become,
then maybe—
just maybe—
I don’t understand it
because
it was never meant for me.
By~𝓳𝓲𝓪