“Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that’s all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those sense weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. Life has to end. “Love doesn’t.” ― Mitch Albom,
There is something miraculously romantic about the way the warm butter creme light flows from my bedside lamp and tucks itself into every page of my book. The way the light smooths the rough edges of the room and the rough edges of my day. The way in shifts back and fourth, until it finds the perfect place to lay, until it covers the carpets, the quilted blankets. the closets and me. There is something so romantic about the way that candle light dances across my skin and the way it uses my bedroom wall to spend the night doing the Charleston like the flappers of history’s past. And the way that the crisp sweetness of apple fills the room and fills the stories. The way it folds you into itself, and makes you feel at home. There is something so romantic about the way that the words flow off my page and place me in the story. The smells, the people, the way the world looks. The way it sends me on a private trip to a place far away. Far away from my butter creme lamp, from the dancing candle, from today.