My window is open
The cold air enters
My music is escaping
Memories
Nostalgia
Time has passed
A tear is shed
Thoughts of you
Refusing to be exstingished
Photography of yesterday
The book remains open
Unsure if I should close it
Followed on the same page with:
Christmas alone in Rosebud 2001. Not a good time.
It's quiet. Too quiet.
I keep losing people. A hole in my pocket. They keep falling through the grates in the sidewalks. I rush to catch them, but they always slip through my numb fingers and are gone.
I want to write a letter to Scott saying just that, followed by:
Can you swim? Sorry. I guess I need to fix those damn holes. They only hurt me.
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