I remember when we sat on a park bench at night, and your head lay nestled in the hollow of my shoulder. My arm circled around your waist, reaching to meet its twin’s wrist. I looked at you, and you blushed, and told me that staring was rude. I spelled ‘M-I-N-E’ in the space between your collarbones and your brow with kisses, and breathed words I never dared to speak. You were flowers in May, the sea spray in July, and the cold wind of November. I was obsessed, and I knew I would never be good enough. Two days later, we broke up. Every kiss since then has left me lonelier.