Falling in and out of like can be so trivial.
There comes a point when all I think about is endless possibilities,
and then another point when all I think about is my id acting up.

It's as if love is really just a feeling:
like, it comes and goes when it pleases
to save for bitter endings, or to butter up a banal existence.

A surface impression: a first impression.

That's all it could possibly take.

A feeling; a transient feeling.