I remember the summer of 2009. Before the world turned itself inside out. Before everything crashed into everything else. I remember the quaint beach house my family stayed at, with the pink walls, and the room that I snuck you into one night before I left while everyone else packed and slept for the drive home. All the cute shops down the street. The pier where I would sneak beers from the cooler of the vendor selling them while you distracted him. Bumming cigarettes off of old men for the two of us with the wink of an eye. You were beautiful. You were everything Iβve ever wanted in anyone since. You kissed with a hint of vanilla and tobacco and heineken light that blended so wonderfully I havenβt tasted anything since. You were beautiful. I was sixteen. Not much behind you, but somehow worlds apart. Now I am old. No longer sixteen. No longer stealing beer and cigarettes. I wonder if you ever went back to that beach. We were only there for two weeks. Met you four days late. Those ten days were not enough. We would sit under the pier at midnight, you leaned against one of the pilings, cigarette forgotten in your hand, somehow always touching mine. Oh, I remember those two weeks, July, 2009. Wonder if you do, too.