Love is never particularly dignified. It's often like the taste left in the mouth after a night of drinking too much gin -- sour and hungry -- but still filled with the memory of so many great moments that made the slow grinding moment of disappointment completely worth it. The thing that can always curl the mouth into a smile like the memory of dancing with moths to the music of the women of Africa on the porch alone, unabashedly, and for no particular reason that reminds you of the person you most love.