Topic: When does lust become love? | |
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When you go from having lots of sex to lots of hugs
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When you go from having lots of sex to lots of hugs ![]() LMAO |
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When you go from having lots of sex to lots of hugs ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
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When you go from having lots of sex to lots of hugs ![]() LMAO ![]() ![]() ![]() |
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![]() ![]() It doesn't turn into love. It turns into a restraining order stemming from a stalking situation. |
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![]() ![]() It doesn't turn into love. It turns into a restraining order stemming from a stalking situation. Sounds like you are speaking from experience. Were you the stalker or the stalkee? ![]() |
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![]() ![]() when you can't get him out of your mind ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
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Lust is I want you for now. Love is I want you forever. That's a good way to view it! |
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![]() ![]() It doesn't turn into love. It turns into a restraining order stemming from a stalking situation. Sounds like you are speaking from experience. Were you the stalker or the stalkee? ![]() I was the stalkee. She couldn't just leave me alone. |
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To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. John Keats |
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Lust becomes Love when the Person you willingly submit to sexually and completely is the One who is by your side and lending you strength in your darkest hours.
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Lust becomes Love when the Person you willingly submit to sexually and completely is the One who is by your side and lending you strength in your darkest hours. ![]() ![]() |
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![]() ![]() $150 |
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![]() ![]() $150 ![]() ![]() ![]() |
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lust in a now in the moment feeling. love is a forever feeling.
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lust in a now in the moment feeling. love is a forever feeling. ![]() ![]() |
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I don't think lust becomes love. Lust is lust and love is love.
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I've got one or the other or both going on right now after a chat with my crush... <sigh>
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