Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake – certain to subside. When it does, you have to make a decision. You have to conclude as to whether your roots are entwined so much so, that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness. Nor is it excitement. It is not the promulgation of promises claiming eternal passion. That is what I would define as being ‘in love’ – which any one could achieve or be deceived by. Love itself, is what is left over when being ‘in love’ has been buried away, flown the nest. This is both an art and a fortunate accident.

We had roots that grew towards each other, magnetism at its strongest. When all the pretty, yet distracting blossom has fallen from our branches are we one tree or two?