Do you still remember that Sunday last June? I do. I remember the breeze playing with my hair and how the shadows moved as the hours passed by. I remember the exact shade of baby blue painted across the sky, and I remember the daisies. The field was full of them, wildflowers, and I had told you my favorite flower was the daisy, so you picked me a bouquet. They were lovely. We sat and talked in the grass. I lamented that I never learned to make a daisy chain, and you replied that you did. You said you could teach me. My eyes watched your fingers weave the stems together while my own fingers delicately plucked the pale petals from a few flowers. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me. I really believed it too. As you placed the completed ring on my brow, sitting in the grass, in the sun, on a warm Sunday in June, I believed it. But the hours dragged on until they became days, and the daisies began to wilt. The days became weeks, and the flowers began to die. The weeks turned into the Summer months, and the calls had all stopped; the petals had fallen. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me? He loves me not.