I love you.

It was hard to say it without sounding trite, hard to write it without seeming false. Hard to think it without feeling sappy.

But there it was. Out there. In the world, as such. Mouthed on lips everywhere. Some other countries had it better; Japan had, it seemed at times, hundreds of different ways with different nuances to say those words; Greece had different types; the Italians had different styles. England, it appeared, was stuck with a phrase that never adequately described what one felt but was used with so much regularity as to become synonymous with cliche.

Still though, I can’t stop saying it. I text it when on the train. I whisper it against your ear. I laugh it, ringing out, as you tickle me.

I shiver when you say it. The ache of need for you pulses when the words pass your lips. Even as I know it’s only words, only a stock phrase, only nothing except something to pass on your love, or your pretence of love.

If it is pretence, however, I hope to be the audience forever.