ExposedNYC

There’s something magical about snow. I don’t even like it much, but the whole idea of every flake being different and every kid staring wide eyed out the window at their “first snow” gives it an element that is not of this world, one that even tramping through ugly Manhattan sludge can’t tarnish.

Love is magical, too. It has that same intangible quality. Every person, like every snowflake, has their own pattern, their own shape, and their own fingerprint. And just like snow, there’s a magical quality about each and every person, one that you can’t describe with rational thought.

But are these the qualities you look for when it snows? Do you stand in the middle of a white blanketed yard, arms and tongue outstretched, looking for that perfect flake to land on your tongue? Or do you take the first that comes along when you happen to wake up and notice what’s happening outside?

Love isn’t always about the most beautiful flake that comes along. Sometimes it’s whatever falls into your mouth. Sometimes you can’t control it, and you don’t even care what it looks like, you just want that taste of magic on your tongue.

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