I was young,
you were patient.
Youth sparkled on my skin
and innocence that had long been forgotten
fell from the trees.

Lousy with marriage proposals
and Friday night lights,
I was free.
You were every bit as irresponsible as my feeble heart.
Feeble, but not fragile.
I was strong, even then.

My skin was fresh
and untainted by passion.
The moments became hot
and there was a perpetual thickness
in the air as it hung heavy around my bedroom.

My window stayed open all summer,
but the fresh air never cleared my head.
I knew what I wanted
and you let me have it.

You stood by and watched
as I threw myself into the restless arms
of my latest romantic endeavor.

Finally, the air ceased to be honeysuckle sweet
and the window was shut.
The fog left and I was alone again.
You picked me back up and dusted me off
and released me back on the world.

I didn't thank you
because I had come to expect your behavior.
You were sweet on me
and I was determined to use that
to my full advantage.
I still am,
and you still let me.