The last smells of summer cling to my skin, and I can’t help but remember the way that yours clung to mine so long ago, or was it even that long ago. We both stopped saying anything to one another as if to prove who would be the last to feel vulnerable; this time it was me. But then again, that’s what these kinds of things do to people. And I remember every detail, except one, which is the taste of your mouth and how it felt for someone to love me that way. I think that’s why we held on for so long — we liked the feeling of being loved, even if we faked it sometimes, skirted the issues, fast-forward to the juicy stuff and then say goodbye. I remember everything, and yet as the days go by I seem to forget to think about it, to think about you. And right now that seems like a great, fabulous thing — save myself the trouble of feeling so unloved and naïve. But I know that your scent will just continue to cling, just as I cling desperately to your sweater, your words.