Autumn air begins to hit, the crisp begins to hit and you begin to notice our beds want more. You pull out that extra blanket from your rack, its warmth feeling so familiar. Not the same every year but the euphoria that you try to remember always takes the same precedure. To lie beside you, and tell you. The beautiful boy sits with his back facing me across the yard without even knowing who is admiring. I don’t feel so seventeen, or maybe, this is what it’s meant to be; confused, questioned, enthralled. Summers are always the most interesting: they come to all of their ends with such goodbyes that always leave you thinking. It’s like those love stories where the boy and the girl are meant to be together, destiny points them to one another but love-as always is interrupted and they go their own ways and run into each other ten years later remembering that summer fling, they were seventeen. So they stare, wave and smile at each others’ child. A typical audience would smash these two destinies back together.