It's not like the love was empty. It was full of... I'm not sure what it was full of but it was there. Still there. And I don't see you at all anymore. Maybe I make it my duty not to pass you. I don't know. But the love is still there, just not in its entirety.
I couldn't put a date on it but the mood has changed. The days were shorter. You turned your nose up when you used to laugh. Rows and rows of flowers in your garden didn't smell the same. The love was autumn.
And now maybe it's torn and a little leaky. I find myself not acting like myself. My devotion has fallen on to wherever it shouldn't go. The love isn't pink or red or beating, but it's not black and rotting. It's purple and blue, your favourite colours. All you did to you and me.
So the love has no name, it's not broken or empty. It could be diseased. It could be because we changed in ways unimaginable, and the love tried to change with us. But seasons don't overlap they pass straight through. But nothing can change with someone. Not even the days or the depression you leave behind. We're not empty just yet.
