Love is something that can never be written
perfectly. Its something that will never be etched by a wordsmith
because its related to moons, rainbows and wine. Not arguments at four a.m. because baby cries on the monitor, or dinner lies cold on the table because he’s forty-five minutes late and no one calls. Apparently that’s not love. Love is holding out a ring- a symbol of unknown
that will bring up thoughts of Gollum and the One Ring. My Precious: not the day, twenty four years down the crimson velvet of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, where you stand in line, returning
what was never ours.
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