Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. It's not breathlessness, it's not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being in love, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. And after all these years, as the dust has been blown away, I find that roots that grow between us underground, and all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches. I find that we are one tree and not two.
