Alex, after all these years, do I still think of this man's name? He appeared in my life, and the eighteen years I lived were wonderful but also ended for him - the poem I wrote for him in my French teacher's composition class that year. It snowed that year, we walked side by side on the Champs Elysées, and I confessed my love to him. That chaotic night at the bar, I hit someone and ended up in jail. I can't forget this, and I can't forget his heartbeat when he hugged me for the first time. Maybe there are disasters and joys in life, maybe half of them are black and half are white. Today, so many years later, does he... Still remember me?
Conception: