Atlantic

I imagine that loving me is something like visiting the beach in the winter.
No, not a tropical, year-round paradise, but a lonely north Atlantic beach, barren once the tourists have deserted it and the cold has settled in.
Loving me is like visiting a northern beach in the winter— completely pointless, cold, dreary, a waste of an otherwise, perfectly good trip.
Love is supposed to be a vacation, but loving me is nothing close.