The clink of ice against glass signals the end of another drink.  Another story told, consumed, and swallowed.  Condensation builds upon the glass, slowly forming a solitary tear.  In my mind, I imagine that the glass is crying – wailing its grief that its usefulness is at an end.  While I had use for you, I held you in high accord – I loved you.  In the end, I love you still, though you serve no purpose in my life.

As my imagination roams, I ask myself again, what is love?  What is love?  Freely used and often tossed around with little thought to its implications – the question remains – what is love?  I once wrote that a word with many meanings soon means nothing.  Has love crossed that boundary?  Is love meaningless?

More tears stream down the face of my glass.  I light another candle in an effort to beat back the darkness encroaching upon my back.  Staring into the flames, I continue to ponder…what is love?

Many conversations, many responses – and still love does not remain universal.  My love is not your love, and your love, is not their love.  We love, or so we claim.  Others love, or so they claim.  Inexorably, inexplicably…we love.  When asked, I defer the question to colorful metaphors and elusive quotes designed to provide an answer without depth and detail.  This suffices because the difficulty in explaining love is proof that someone has at least encountered love.

What is my definition?  Utterly simple:  love is a remarkable desire of company, which associates people together, without any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union.  Even in its simplicity, the vague overtures of complexity arise.

The glass sheds its last tear. A puddle of water surrounding the glass forms a memorial to the innocence lost here today.  I blow out the candles, and as darkness descends, I wonder about my response, and I feel…that the answer is out there for those that know where to look.

Walk with me…