Mortified Memories

I thought about you today.
I thought about that stupid bracelet I made you.
Out of those stupid coke tabs.
I don't think I'll ever forget sitting in the middle of the floor making it when you walked in.
And I tried to ignore you, because I was trying to be cool.
But you didn't let me get away with that.
You just had to come back and hug me.
I don't know if that was your decision or you merely giving into the pressure of the girls sitting around me, and from what I remember, gesturing wildly for you to initiate some kind of contact with me.

I think about that stupid bracelet and I'm absolutely mortified.
So, in case you're reading this, I apologize for offering such a stupid gift.
And for giving it to you.

But I don't apologize for the butterflies in my stomach when you had me tie it on your wrist backstage.  Or for the pride I felt that you even wore it at all, whether you wanted to or were just trying to be nice.  Because that moment is one of the many moments burned into my memory and stuck in the ever growing file with your name on it.
That was a good day for me.
I felt like you cared.
I felt special.
I felt acknowledged.
Even if it was only because of a stupid, admittedly atrocious, poorly made bracelet.

And those are the feelings I miss when I miss you.