It's not love.
You watch him from the corner of your eye, a book in front of you, even though you're not reading and he knows you well enough to know it, too. He's straightening your books, long white fingers skating across dark leather and peeling gold letters. He's beautiful.
It's not love.
Once, when you were younger than you are now, if not by much, you ordered him to kiss you. He obeyed, of course, he doesn't deny you anything, his master, but he has become unfortunately adept at obeying only the letter of the law (and what an inappropriate phrase, for this situation). Perhaps you should try again. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps while he undresses you. Perhaps this time, it will be a lover's kiss, not a parent's, to your mouth, not your forehead. (To be fair, "Kiss me good night" and "Kiss me" vary slightly in their connotations.)
It's not love.
You're fairly certain, after all, that you don't possess the capacity to love properly, having not been born of a proper love. He's yours, completely yours, pet and possession all in one, and when he is damaged, the fury occurs at the vandalism sustained by your property. Of course he saves you. Why wouldn't he? It's why he exists.
It's not love.
It may be ownership. It may be pride. It may be control, and domination, and the one toy which never broke and the one pet who will never leave, and it may be many, many things, but love is for normal people, people with families, people with lives in the light and not in the shadows, people who marry and want children and want to be happy, not you. Never you, you who tap your cane in a death's march against moonwashed cobblestones. Never you, you who see the skeletons of the crowds, ivory bones trimmed with silken skin sheathed in silken dresses trimmed with ivory lace. Never you, you who want to be so miserable you are happy because you do not know what to do with tear-free happiness.
It's not love.
It simply is.
A/N: I... don't even know. Have something I scribbled so I don't go insane. College is killing me.