The bittersweet chill in the air reminds me of you. Reminds me of plush black velvet and the fabulous sounds of the symphony. Reminds me of star gazing in a child's dream castle while eating ice cream as cold as the air that we breathed in and out. In and out. Like the slow motion of my heart when we spotted the deer in a almost magical wandering. The sweet, and forever arousing scent of your massage oil twangs at the lower muscles of my back where your hands rested and relaxed so many times before. It reminds me of holding and loving you. Love that, at the time, was immature and buried deep within some unknown subconscious.

The numbing wind rushes into me like a train whenever I make the mistake of opening my mouth to breathe. Filling my chest cavity and attacking my heart with the onslaught of the realizations of how nostalgic I truly am. The gently painful caresses of the late fall breeze make me regret not being able to open and show myself. I did once before. Once I let my guard down for too long and lost control. Since, I've kept my heart and soul under lock and key. Not allowing anyone to get that close. That real. But then you managed to climb my fortress walls and sit idly on the windowsills of my heart. And my first reaction, or maybe trained instinct, way to regress. Fear of pain and a mass amount of confusion kept me distance from your touch and finally out of reach.

Maybe I really only amounted to the rebound girl. Maybe. But I still am sorry for my refusal to allow our relationship to develop past the rosebud stage. I am sorry for any heart or head torment, or trauma for that matter, which I might have caused. I suppose this amounts to my personal version of closure. Finally offering the best explanation possible. The explanation I didn't ever give. The explanation that pulses through my body like a fire every time I step outside. Every time I hear Fleetwood Mac.

So, I'm thinking of you this time of year. The time when the wind chills me to the bone and I am without your presence to melt the pain away. The time of year that I am sorry.

Damn this weather,

Sheena