The word love, spoken at the wrong time, is like old candy, melted and stuck to its wrapper, cloying and papery, chewy where it should be crisp. At least that's how much of my experience with the word love has been- like forgetting a crayon left on a vinyl seat of a car, it's inevitable. Both the crayon and the seat leave their mark on each other. But to omit the word love would be like boarding up the windows of a house because the world is too polluted, too violent, and the weather is always partially cloudy. I don't love any less because those fluffy clouds are really chunks of ice; neither is it fair to expect to make sherbet out of them. But I always keep a spoon in my pocket; even though I can already taste my own disappointment sticking in my throat, waxy and sweet.