Without meaning to lie, they will teach you half-truths: they will tell you love is sweet only in the summers of one’s youth.
They will tell you love is real if, and only if, it survives the harshest winters.
They will tell you love must die like autumn leaves in order to be beautiful. They will tell you “don’t trust spring — because the flowers in the breeze are not worth the threat of rain.” They will tell you these things because they have learned nothing.
At its truest form, love is a study in seasons.
Love is as much the huddle for warmth when the weather is cold, as it is the sweat on your back when it’s time for the sun.
It is afternoon peace, when you welcome the night with its stars and its chill; but it is also bravery, when you’re given the…
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