Under my bed there is a large shoe box of romances past. Inside, I have placed every memento, every flower petal. There are love letters and corsages, costume jewelry and an empty cologne bottle. There is a pair of chopsticks from the first sushi date…a ceramic elephant…a pair of tickets from that one show…and they are there. I open that box and I find myself missing them. Their tender kisses, their familiar smiles. I am also there…but a different edition, a different chapter. There are some stories I like to read over and over again, even when I know the ending. A tragic love story is often still a good one.