but I still let myself get wounded. I take each step, dripping blood across the stones that led to our favorite fountain— angry at myself for doing so, yet reminded that, just like those drops, we once followed those stones to a fountain that held more than water— it held memories like no other. We cast rocks in, wondering which would sink or float— which would vanish, never to be seen again. I wonder… when did I fall, just like some of them, into this pile of love so deep I’ve yet to gasp for air again. Despite my scars and wounds,