And when I dig my teeth into my knees, my weary spine bends and breaks; tanglements of fractured weathered glass that I pretend is a made up camera in my mind, turns out to be just a bunch of light on some negatives. Rainy nights are the hardest to stay dry, that weather man, he lied. I’m tired of these December nights, I’m not who I used to be. No august freckles, or wrinkles from smiles in the corners of our eyes. I used to sit in the passenger seat, feet up on the dash, as we drove down the clear interstate, trying to follow the sunrise; but didn’t have an address and we had no idea where to go, so we’d go to the railroad and listen to the train cars and there was comfort in the sound. It was always cold, and my teeth chattered morse code. I was thinking that I wanted the calendar to hang itself, I just wanted time to stop. And now I have my own conversations, sitting alone at the coffee shop, unfolding notes, and maps of places we have been; paper cuts quilt the past into my fingers, and I cry, deciding to wait out the weather that howls in my brain. We always had good intentions; taps on the window, and dialogues stitched together, each quarter note of your voice holding me together. Watching colors multiply in columns over the ocean as we sailed singing an old song. I was the book, and you were the binding. I still carry you around in the background. I still try to clear my head but it is full of thoughts that I have yet to think; that my insides were probably expensive, that I constantly long for the trees to undress their leaves on me, that I hate you for being red when I am blue, that one day you will be the chord to my parachute.