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"Love is strange, so real in the dark"
It only happens when you're alone, when you share a hotel room or appear on the other's doorstep. The rest of the time it's like a tickle in the back of your brain, an itch you can't scratch. It's like a fable, a fairytale, woven on olden tongues and passed down through generations; you wouldn't believe it if you hadn't experienced it.
It had started out as a quick fuck, a stress reliever, a way to feel heated flesh against yours with no strings attached. No questions asked, just whispers of skin and sweat and the promise of nothing more.
You should have known, though, that it would change. It evolved like leaves in the fall, slowly at first, but then you were falling, falling into the blackness.
There are still no whispered promises.