Her hair, sun-kissed—sometimes me-kissed—brown and blonde, with glints of gold in the setting sun. When I lean in to kiss the top of her head, she smells nice—or is it that nice smells like her? She frets about graying now and then, but to my eyes she's perfect, more so today than at sixteen, when we were young together. Some day we'll be old together, but together still, and when the sun sets from time to time it'll kiss her hair again, and so will I.