That's blasphemy.

Since Winterson, I’ve been under the impression that the measure of love is loss. It makes sense, I suppose—we don’t know what we’ve got till it’s lost and gone. Maybe. Makes sense.
But since when did that change? Since when was love measured by “waiting”?
Wait for me. Wait. Stay. Hold. Hold on a little longer.
Since when did all this become a test? A test of endurance.
Perseverance is the key to one’s heart.
In time. It will be worth it in time. Because she will know, then. And she will realize that all this while how much she means to you. But fuck knowing. I don’t want her to know anymore. Maybe for once in my life I don’t want to feel bad for not wanting to wait anymore. There is no measurement to love, because there is no absolute love, but a futile, vain attempt to repeat a semblance of a definitive concept that does not exist in the first place.
You see, that’s the problem with lovers and leavers: Lovers stay; Leavers leave.
Stop. Back this up. Rewind; Replay. No more. .

The measure of love is not wait.
It is the fucking ache that lingers with every hint of spite in your breath, reminding me time and time again that I must, and I should. But the truth is I don’t (want to) any more.

Ask me what the measure of love is.