Love, like everything else, is ephemeral. Tell me if you see forever
in things like telephone conversations that tied up the lines and your hearts and in the funny faces made in photobooths, where the pictures develop, flutter in the air, slide under the machine and sleep with dust, forgotten; else, suffocated between the pages of a picture album that will fuel the fire of a broken heart. But it’s always nice to imagine that maybe, things like stolen glances across a crowded room, pet names, anniversaries, and stuffed animals won at a fair won’t fade away like the shiny varnish on the wooden floor, where you once saw your reflection and thought it was nice. Everything is fleeting. Each moment fades. But it’s the thought of something stellar, something that will remain burning bright in the night for millennia upon millennia, that deceives us and makes us ignore the explosion.