I write of a love that never existed

I write to an address that no longer exists because I hurt from a love that never existed. I can't call and tell you that I ache for you. Wishing for a call, a kiss, a hug, a touch. How could I love so hard and not know I wasn't loved in return. I write to an address that doesn't exist because I hurt from a love that was mine and mine alone. We shared kisses that only we could share, spoke in languages that only we could comprehend. How could that have been false? How could I have missed the signs? Flowers, candy, gifts, those things weren't for us. The only thing we had to cling to was words. I used those words to carry me throughout heartache, reading them over and over when your voice wasn't there to give me comfort. I write to an address that no longer exists because I hurt from a love that wasn't returned. Was it even love that I felt or was it the intoxication I felt from your touch? Your hands touched me and my body filled with hot lava waiting to explode from it's volcano with one command. Your lips tasted of freedom and entrapment all in one, freeing me to give you all and making me a slave to effects of our lovemaking. Would I call it lovemaking? Would I call it fucking? What do you call something that has the power to soothe souls and bring torture. I write to an address that doesn't exist because I hurt from a love that didn't love me back. What do I do with all of this? I'm raw, an exposed being feening for the touch of someone who could care less, who plays with hearts as sport and gives no care to what he leaves behind. How will I get past this agony. I'll write to the address that is no longer his and pretend that he will see that I write of the love that never existed and use the pain to heal.