The ritual of recognition, unchanged, I’m sure, after the season. Never stop short of you, I always go past. So do you. We’ll both turn around. Genuinely, “How are you?” Always the same question. Will it hold more weight after a hundred days, if mine is less? I’ll be as sincere as always, ‘cause I thought of you each day apart. Have I the courage to ask, did you ever wonder at all if the disorder’d take me? No, those summer thoughts will be meaningless now that you’ve an answer. However, I might remind you that I still care about you, you; isn’t that a nice thing to know? That’s a question, my dear, because I don’t know; I never hear it. I’m so sick of not knowing and tired of not speaking, so I’ll say it. You still are a wonder to me, an amazing person to know, and I’m done with inhibitions. Hear me out. Give me a shot. I deserve you.