p.s.

I have never loved a woman for herself alone, but because I was caught up in the time with her, between train arrivals and train departures and other commitments. I have loved because she was beautiful and we were two humans lying in the forest at the edge of a dark lake or because she was not beautiful and we were two humans walking between buildings who understood something about suffering. I have loved because so many loved her or because so many were indifferent to her, or to make her believe that she was a girl in a meadow upon whose approved knees I laid my head or to make her believe that I was saint and that she had been loved by a saint. I never told a woman I liked her and when I wrote the words “My love”, I never meant it to mean “I love you”.

L.Cohen “Poems Written / While Dying of Love”