and instead of forgetting who you were to me, i seem to be involved in who you ''are''. Now, this might seem complicated, to all of you, this inner monologue of mine. But, I am faced with complicated that come from the deep recesses of my mind. Your hair. Your hands. Your lips and chipped nail polish. The cats that you used to have, your sofa, and how I faked smoking that bong (only with one of you). Now, we seem to be progressing in some way. I see her more often, still small and immaculate as always, and then there's you: where fear strikes me down in the belly, rendering me useless and obnoxious when observed.

I studder, my hands sweat. The messages remain slightly teasing and decieving. I am left to betray myself, and maybe even a man who loves me, for the off chance that I will one day feel your lips again. I remember them thinly; because that's how they were. My memories are close ups, pictures and polaroids of our guilt due to affiliation. And I can see it happening again, this time dressed in winter clothes. Like the last. I will stand the tiniest bit taller than you, awkward, sweating underneath my clothes. You will take my fingertips, my toes and my lips with one simple look. Leaving me barren and cold, once again, when you realize the mistake you have 'hooked'.

I hope you realize that you cannot shake me. My feet now the roots of a tree. I will remain hopeless and staggering, dreaming through my growing age of you being next to me, in the proverbial winter of my youth. With those forgotten cold hands.