Forever January

I find that all this time I have loved my own personal Taj Mahal. It’s wonderfully beautiful, exotic. You find yourself speechless in its presence. Nothing compares to it, and nothing ever will. It is singular and unique.

And so you are my Taj Mahal. I admire you, love you, adore you, grow silent and breathless in your presence.

But at the end of the day, I must leave you where you stand; leave you to return to my other world where home is small, quaint, simple. I love both places but yours is forever intangible. I will always think of it with a wistful sigh in my heart, pine for it like a wolf baying at the moon, sometimes even dream about it.

But at the end of the day, no girl from Louisiana will ever live in the Taj Mahal. No wolf will ever call down the harvest moon. She must find happiness elsewhere: tangible, touchable happiness.

And so perhaps I have, but always will I love my Taj Mahal.