Like a warm coffee house in the middle of winter, an hour before midnight and right after a decent run.
Like fireplaces, a large soft couch and Enya playing above the crackling of wood.
Like kisses on your nose, and reaching for each other's hand under the table when you're in public.
Like time, for all of that.
Like tasting the rest of your life on the edge of your lips.
Like wondering where you are and how to find yourself again