This isn't about me. This is about the way we two, you and I, tangled half-mad through haze of winter nights. The way our voices stumbled together in the dark. You had your secrets, I had mine, but the distinction melted into unity in those deep evenings of discourse, and we'd remember things together, as though there were anything at all for us to remember. Maybe this is about me after all, but it's also about the way my heart still beats to the syllables of your name.