Almost like shooting stars.

That night, we met at the usual 7:00. The music played, and you asked for a dance. “Of course,” although I was so nervous that, looking back, I’m not sure if I said it or the butterflies in my stomach. It had to be these butterflies, these same butterflies.

That night, we held hands, and spun around and around and around. The moon was so envious of us, of what we shared. The music finally stopped though. And, like all things, so did we.

That night, you told me that you’d never heard a more beautiful melody. I made sure that they played it when we buried you. I promise.