They say love is felt by those who live in the time on Friday night dinners with someone to pick at the crumbs of the food you could barely finish. They say love is for those who eagerly anticipate tomorrow morning during sleepless nights. But sometimes I'm at his house on a Sunday morning and I sit on top of the counter waiting for coffee to brew. And the smell of coffee beans and and syrup remind me of him. And as I take the boiling water and pour as I slowly burn the inside of my fingertips, I can't tell if I hate this burning sensation or love the sight of my skin changing into the colors of fall. I start to question what to do with my hands.