There is a breed of person who will love you only when it is convenient for them. They will love you ardently, compose sonnets to your nose, your pinkies, your breasts, bemoan the day that you dare love them back less--- but still they will love you only when it is convenient.
A man from out of state loves me like this. On days that he is wounded and drowning in Jameson in an orchestrated performance of his own perfect misery, he loves me so. My plucky notes play to the tune of his woes and my very existence, for him, is a savior. Right then, he loves me. It just works.
He loves me after watching a romantic tragedy, so that I may validate him.
He loves me after a night of picking up other girls goes sour, so that I may give him purpose.
He loves me when he catches a glimpse of me for the first time in months, so that his heart may swell at the sight of perfection.
He loves me as an enigma from afar and as a goddess up close. And for the brief times when he loves, he truly does love.
However, for him to love I must be elusive or within a ten foot radius. And either way, I am not an image of myself but the image of whatever ideal he has created today.
It is a love of convenience. A love of fervent yet transient emotion, ebbing in and out with his loneliness. But most of all, it is not a love of me. It is a love of me as I pertain to him.
This breed of person will worship you. But as much fun as it is to be a goddess, it is not so fun when you realize that your feelings never matter. You are there purely as an instrument of their personal destruction.
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