Come on, just last the year.  It was something she thought every once in a while.  She hadn’t been to the lookout, dark over the pacific ocean, in weeks.  Her house was close to the water, a small basement suite that would grow unbearably cold in the winter.  Even now, as summer began to stretch, a chill sprang like a weed from her fingertips, creeping up her arms.  

Now all your love is wasted, her thoughts tumbled together as she sat long after she should be asleep, missing the cliffs and fretting for a reason.  A finger traced her lips in an unavoidable habit.  It was too late to think properly but still she wondered absently at the people that seem to tug at one’s heart.  And who the hell was I.  (Skinny Love from For Emma, Forever Ago)

Of course, it must be Bon Iver.