But, when the sun comes up in winter, we barely catch his grin. It's still dark and gray. The snow kisses the glass, and I remember piling cigarette ash, while my arms crisscross on the windows pane. Breathing out marshmallow thick reels of smoke, defining my lungs and my waiting heart, wondering why. Instead one goes missing, and instead of milk cartons, our faces are behind wine bottles and beers. Cus all our friends are too damn old. We're just wasting years. Waiting til the fire dies so my shadow doesn't have to keep chasing after me, begging me to dance. Cus he's tired of being alone. 
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