Leftover Love.

We always hear stories about that new love. 
That giddy, inconvenient, smoke and mirrors, is it real love.
The kind that makes you forget how to act right.
Got you making actual phone calls, but leaving texts on “read” all night.
It’s a butterfly riot in the pit of your stomach, 4-inch heels and La Perla lingerie instead of faded sweats and a holey shirt love.
It’s whiskey kisses in other people’s doorways, and “Get a room!” from passersby love.
Sure, there’s a lot of lust but it’s STILL love.
It’s exciting, yet scary. Refreshing, yet hot.
The kind of love that got you making excuses like, “I can’t make it, I have to work late” when really you’re not.

But what a bout that leftover love?
Not that love that’s left after the fireworks die. 

I’m talking about the love that’s left when one no longer tries.
That obligated love. That “we got history” love. That I still got love for her, but I’m not in love with her love.
That painful slow death when there ain’t nothing left, but we’ve been through so much, we gotta keep it up, he’s all I’ve ever known I don’t want to be alone love.
It’s that she was there since Day 1, so you keep holding on love.
I mean, how do you leave a good man when you don’t want to leave?
How do you stay with a good woman when she’s not where you want to be?
So we get drunk, and cry when we’re sober. Carrying the weight of a failed relationship on our shoulders,
Trying to figure out what to do with our love leftovers.

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