If I wrote you a love letter I’d call on all the details from our weekend in Vermont. Sometimes when I walk into the kitchen I still expect to see you sitting at the table – hair tied up in a towel and your long fingers curled around a cup of tea. Your hazel eyes, that glance, it did things for me. I’d trace your hips bones all afternoon until we both got dizzy and drunk on the smell of each other. I’d watch you wander from room to room and catch your breath doorways and make decisions on who to be next. I’d never seen someone get so much out of being pretty, but you took up the whole room with it. If I’d have known we would change with the season then I’d never have left Vermont – with those tree lined streets, and the smell of ripe pears in the kitchen. I’d have just kept on kissing you right on through the fall.