Love is a curious thing. You can find it in the most unlikely of places, In a lonely florist shop on a New York street where a boy stumbles over a pot of forget-me-notes, trying to sound knowledgeable about flowers, In a coffee shop where glances are stolen over the rims of conveniently- slowly-sipped cappuccinos, And on the edge of a fountain where a love poem is written through dreamy eyes. Love likes to hide itself in unassuming spots, The notes played from the violin of a man in the underground metro that are inspired by his muse, Orange Vespa's ridden together on dusty roads, or a small bookshop off the beaten path brought to life by the silhouette of two heads huddled over a book. Love can also lose itself sometimes and I'm afraid I can't give you any instance of this for a love lost is a love gone forever. But my love will always be right...
