When there is no love left, you don't feel hatred. You feel indifferent. Your once beloved becomes no difference from the others. Everything related to your once beloved loses its significance. His or her telephone number becomes just an entry amongst thousands of other entries in your contact list. Perhaps when you feel love, you would leave a space or put a number "1" in front of the entry to list this very telephone number on the top of all others. The significance of this first entry in your contact list weighs the most. It is a symptom of love. When this very love is gone, the most predictable thing which would happen is this very entry would be deleted. It is easier to do this than to bother relisting the entry in the contact. This could happen with anything. Everything could become as trivial as dirt. It could be as plain as water. The index in these comparisons are "dirt" and "water". You compare everything related to your onced beloved to "dirt" and "water". It turns out that your feeling is not different from everything else.

But, what if mixing dirt with water? La boue est faite de nos pleurs!(The mud is made of our tears!)**

** Charles Baudelaire, "Moesta et Errabunda", Les Fleurs du Mal.
***Jeanette Prior, la boue d'estaire, oil on canvas.