Remember the cemetery walks? The way the sun would set into the trees for the evening as the warm left the air and the coolness would touch our skin. We would dance because nobody was there to see us, except for everything that watched and could only be jealous. The trees, the tombstones, the few whisps of cloud in thy sky. They have beauty, but they can't dance. They can't even feel nervous - nervous like I do when my hand touches your hand. Still. Sometimes we wish the responsibilities would fade away so that we could walk in the cemetery again without worry of a place to go. But every time the sun sets, the warm leaves the air, and you touch my hand I'm there all over again. You have stolen my heart.