Birds chirped, the smell of bacon and wildflowers coming from the kitchen, the smell of cedar from logs in the woodstove. It seemed like heaven to her, though she knew not what heaven looked nor felt like. If she could write it the way she studied it in school, those long languid days spent in the arms of her lover and learning the ways of Whitman and Dahn, it would look somewhat similar to this. To the stubble grazing her chin in the night under cotton sheets, not a plan for that day or the next. Only the hearth to keep fed and the nights to keep warm. Heaven, she thought, was a combining of two souls in one spot.

(Though the problem with that is that not only does it require trust in an undiluted state to such a point that judgement cannot waver to the extent supplied by doubt, but that love also requires a feeling that most are incapable of pursuing)
If two hearts are in tune yet only one feels it, love can fall apart. Every single time.