Nights without stars do not interest me.
The moon knows this and so once a month she shines beyond all the stars of the night.
It does not say much of me to dismiss a starless night, but it says less of the moon who thinks she must wait a month before shining her light wholly and brilliantly.
Though, I can say the moon is held highly because who else can brave the unending army of stars and appear to us even brighter than a universe?
I am a firm believer in love, but I think, when it comes to romance, that I am looking for someone with whom I feel a warmth between a furnace and a candle.
When I imagine the kind of love I want to have today and tomorrow and twenty and sixty years from now, I see the bursts of light appear periodically, the kind of light that fills me up like the sun behind clouds. I also see the flickers that speak in the silence, quietly asserting its own presence. But mostly I see the steady fire around which people share themselves. I call this fire old love.
To me, old love is not necessarily love that has lasted or love by and from our parents and grandparents, though it is not unlike these things. Specifically, I consider old love that love which, like wine or good friends or meaningful habits, has aged into elegance; that is to say, excess has been eroded away. What remains is love that burns steadily and can be sustained easily.
Old love is what I see when I think about my future. It is what fills me when I think about my past. And when I find someone who burns with such a flame, it will be what I see in my present as I close my eyes and feel my heart.