The hug is detached. Cold,sterile,mechanical, More an action of necessity than an impulse. Is this love? It has to be. The tv told me so, The magazine articles stressed it, The website flaunted it, like waving a flag from a distant hilltop. Red roses, A romantic meeting, under a clock in some random station, Watching a shooting star, whilst lying on a carpet of lush green dew. Balconies at dusk. The sunset. Cue the exit music s'ilvousplait. And I smile at her limply, Because I do not even know what I want any more, So anxious to play it safe. I want fashion and long hair, I want meaningless, hard, explosive sex, I want a sense of constant wellbeing, I want to be untouched by fallability, I want... I don't care anymore. Is this love?