SIDE WALK
And so it is that certain night I recall the nights that I couldn't have possibly lived in because what is it that I miss when I've never had it to begin with? The fingers of wind go through my hair and the cold lights press against my cheek - it's almost a very pretty picture of a sham that I've painted for myself. And in the whispers that creep up against my neck to my ears, in the quiet wisps of breath sliding up the back to my ears, I always forget what you say.