We don't fall in love. Not ever at first, we rise in it. Our hearts bloom and our blood rushes. Blessed as love even briefly takes its shoes off at our front door, enters without knocking and makes a hell of a smiling mess in our kitchen. We rest snug and delighted in the first flush. Love blossoms simpatico. The strings in our chest gently plucked by another who may have walked on by a hundred other days.