I don’t remember forgetting what it was like to be in love. That memory, that feeling, that knowing were worn away, slowly, insidiously. Eroded by constant dripping of anti-love and criticism. By lack of love. By removal of love that once was. It was slow; each layer, each level, each downward change so incremental as to barely command attention, but all together they joined, fused by weight, like the weight of earth turns minerals into oil, liquefies rock.