Your sweater is a beguiling shade of sage that makes light refract in your eyes just a little bit longer, seeming just that much greener, and you will never know how much this fact upsets me. The key you dropped into my climate-controlled-office-warm palm was cold, a reminder of the storm coming down off the mountain in the middle of May and I can’t help but wonder if your hands need to be held or if you simply need a better sweater. I don’t know if I could forgive myself for changing that shade of green. Perhaps it’s just that you need to keep your hands busy– idly rubbing, gripping the seams of your jeans, flicking the topmost left wheel of a skateboard while you wonder where your income will come from this June– they never quite gather warmth despite all that nervous energy. I couldn’t forgive myself for making them still.