Recidivism.

With all my mighty might I had to resit the urge to run my fingers through your hair so grey it's gotten, so today I must apologize for my awkwardness. No matter how I believe in private how cool I'll act in public, with you it's as though today were the first take. Gosh, you.

I still remember the day we met, how you spent the day and into the evening avoiding me, and it's no wonder now you wish you had kept on keeping your distance. I remember what you said, in your quiet accent, and it's no wonder now I wish you'd never said it. What a series of events we set off that night, it's a wonder the world didn't come crashing down.

You give me far too much credit, little girl.

No, my darling boy, I give you exactly enough.

I remember the night you chased me through the field behind my parents' house, the grasses tall and swaying about our knees, the katydids leaping jubilantly in the air as we rushed by. The night was warm and golden, as are my memories of you, as is my favorite memory of you, when you finally caught up with me behind that ramshackle barn, its green paint peeling so badly it struggled with the grey wood beneath to stay green. You caught me by the elbow and spun me around, wrapped your arms around my waist as we danced beneath the stars. That was the first time and the last time we ever danced, each step in time with each heavy breath in the warm and golden air.

That was a long time ago, little girl.

No, my darling boy, it was just yesterday.