It Wasn't Love

He didn’t love me — he desired me. Not the kind of love they write in stories, Not the gentle kind from fairy tales, But a hunger cloaked in whispered glories. It wasn’t love — it was a fire, A burning need, a sharp desire. He craved my body, night and day, But never saw me drift away. He said he loved me — maybe he lied, Or maybe truth and lust collide. But love would see the hurt I hid… He only saw what clothing did.