This song. It always reminds me of you. Even in the best of moods, it can turn me to a groveling little girl.

I would awake to find you beside me, snoring lightly with that peaceful look on your face. Were you dreaming about me? It wasn't important. You were there with me, and that mattered most.

I might do a number of things in those tepid mornings. Some mornings I would bring my fingertips across your back, and some mornings I might kiss you lightly on the forehead. I might do both, and it took every ounce of restraint I possessed to keep myself from snuggling up to you and falling back asleep. No, no, no. We had to work.

I would sit up and swing myself to the edge of the bed, placing the bottoms of my feet on the cold, wood floor. What I would do next depended on the manner of my clothing. Our first meetings, I would usually wake up nude. I'd reach for my red, silk robe with the Chinese dragon on the back, and slip it over my skin. Later on, when our meetings became forbidden trysts, I would awake in my pajamas, having done nothing but snuggling the night before.

I might stick my feet in some slippers then, but I would almost always walk over to my iPod and play a song I thought you might like. I knew you liked Weezer, so I played "Say It Ain't So" one morning. Strangely, that's the song that haunts me.

You stirred shortly thereafter, and we proceeded to get dressed in silence, save for that song playing softly in the background. I'd walk around to that slow rhythm, acquiring more clothing as I went.

You were always beautiful to me then, as you always were. However, knowing you awoke in my bed gave me a sense of me belonging to you, and you to me. You were even more beautiful in those times.

Always in boxers, sometimes in a white tank, I would admire you discreetly. Your broad shoulders, strong arms, tall frame, flawless skin and messed up hair delivered both a sense of wonderment and desire. There was a warmth between my thighs, but more so in my heart. Truly you were heaven-sent.

We would walk out the door, usually engaging in a quick smooch at your car, and leave for work in our separate vehicles. The drive was a happy, but groggy one. I couldn't wait to see you again, though we had just kissed.

I'd sit at my desk, waiting like a hungry puppy for her master's arrival.

Then, you would stroll in leisurely, usually with a Dr. Pepper in hand. My heart would stop, then beat quickly, then stop again. A wave of chills would go from head-to-toe, with goosebumps to follow. I'd grin wildly, though I tried not to. The warmth between my legs returned.

So it began...a day of constant flirtations, quick glances, lingering glances, smiles, giggling, and swooning. During our frequent IMing, I would look to my right whenever you would say something funny, silly, cute, whatever. I would often intercept your gaze, the glow of your monitor reflecting in your eyes.

Holy Christ I still love you. I tell myself to hate you. At times I think I might. But, the end result is this: nearly eight months after we saw each other last, I still think of you constantly. I may cry at the thought of your smile, and I might chuckle to myself. But I almost always feel my heart crumble at the thought of your kiss, of your humor, of every little quirk that both delighted and frustrated me.

I am convinced that time will not heal this in me. I am convinced that I will love you always.

So then what can I do? Surely you cannot believe I am the one for you, else you would have fought for me, for us. So, if I love you, but you do not love me, what can I do but to wallow in my misery?

I will continue crying, and that is all. I will listen to this song and remember.