And I could see our days were becoming nights/I could feel your heartbeat across the grass

And so it has been a year. Tanti auguri. On the eve of your birthday last year you made me bruschetta and some lovely pasta and we shared a bottle of red wine. Our dessert came straight out of a box but I couldn't care less. I miss you, nearly everything about you - your cockiness, our endless conversations about wine and Italian food, the smug look on your face, how you always mumble and I hardly understand what you say. And the way you look at me - no one has ever made me feel so adored. I have long stopped keeping tabs on you, but you still manage to creep into my thoughts every once in a while. You were my favourite out of all the rest.

It's Fete dela Musique again. I recall some three or four years ago I left Fete happy as a lark.

As J.M. Barrie said, God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December.