“I don’t believe in love”
was one of the first things I had told you
and I’m not entirely sure, if I was just trying to push you away and shut you out because you were nothing but trouble, or I was nothing but trouble, or both, or if I was challenging you to prove me wrong. You told me “love is a many-splendored thing, love, lifts us up where we belong—all you need is love,” and I was more annoyed that you believed love was worthwhile than I was amused that you used Elephant Love Medley in a conversation, which was something I had always wanted to do.
So I told you I didn’t believe in it, and I told you that love is a farce. What I didn’t tell you was that I still loved, and that I had loved you then because I thought you needed someone to love you; I just didn’t believe in love then and I don’t believe in love now, but somewhere in between I at least thought there was something worth believing in.
