'them

To the boy who taught me three chords on a guitar, whose patience pressed my fingers to the frets and moulded his hands to mine, whose song rang askew from the pitch but caught me all the same;

To the boy who drunk-dialled me one night for my hand in marriage, whose slurs stabbed pin-holes through my walls, whose laughter sounded so forlorn he could have been sobbing;

To the boy who held me while I cried, whose arms protected against the pain and shock and broken glass, whose words dissolved the wreckage from my nightmares and gave me hope;

To the boy who flew me up and built me a haven on the mountaintops, whose headlights ignited the fields of green and yellow and grey, whose silence did chase away my demons;

And to the boy who charmed me with his antics, whose names tasted of joy and an endless youthful optimism, whose sunshine stained mine till it shared the same shade of glorious, innocent summer;

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I know, and I remember.