I liked the version of you that day, open and bare. Analytical. It was like you were holding the fort, on the verge, at the gate by the sea. I tried to look for that version again but without the presence of alcohol and that night it seemed to have vanished. All that was left is seriousness. The wind took your beautiful petals away. But maybe it is unfair of me. My treserous crime. The selfishness of liking a version of you in a second of time and disregarding the rest.