It’s the boy holding flours at your doorstep and all you can think about is that maybe someday he might hold hands with you. This is somewhere around the time where Sinatra crooned about Guys and Dolls, and Freddie and Ginger Waltz in the background. “You are a murderer of love,” the die-hard honest fourteen year-old yelled. While a wiser woman watched and said, “I would do anything to have that kind of certainty.” Can we really disparage idealism so swiftly, when the innocence of youth is what holds the pigment that colors our cheeks, in the defining moment of a blush? I just miss all of that. Sometimes it’s like your heart would burst and you just feel this pain, this hope, this unexplainable belief in this untouchable concept called love, the truest form of love, being so beyond the material entrapments of existence. How come “love conquers all” is so apropos? There were the best crushes that captivated us when we are so young, seeing how one boy is kind to others, and thus becoming the greatest hero in your heart. I miss those heroes.