Love is a blanket always warm on the coldest days of winter, able to steer the infliction of self away from the damage of the heart. It is the beaming light streaking across the library floor, pooled in the corner of floating dust and worn pages of bound books held together by the oil of fingers turning the pages. And it is the small, little things, so meaningless in the grand gestures that make us think this is what love is.
I believe that is always celebrated as romance, and so very little in the kindness of our souls. So very little is seen in the greeting of our neighbors or the stranger; to be anonymous is the greatest harm to the image of our being. To be less than family or a romantic partner, to never have the possibility for love to bloom in all its different forms. To divide and to subjugate and to forget.
Love is the ability to love and love again in new and interesting ways.