I thought I poured my soul out to you on a dark September night as the cold began to set in for the year, but your expression remained the same. I thought you would learn to kiss over time, but your lips always remained stoic. I thought your eyes once sparkled after a night at the Indie movie theater on Atlantic, but there is no divet to indicate they ever reflected light. I thought your heart fluttered with butterflies every time you saw me, but when I reach out to feel it, it is only made of stone. And while I beg, plead and fight with bloody knees, your stone hardens. I thought I found you just as you were thawing out, when, in fact, I found you as your hard stone was setting itself in place.