Congestion

For days on end this ruthless cold, this chilling air but it's not so bad. There is too much else to see to bother with shivering. New lives are created in a world far from mine, and the knowledge thereof warms my senses. We sit at White Horse Tavern and reminisce; we were all 16 once, flipping through yearbooks and molding stormy feelings out of clay like they were the be-all end-all of all time. He says thank god we don't have to remember all the words we used. All that's left are the mixtapes.

We part ways by the Rite-Aid on the corner and I think how many things have ended in this life.

How I wish for something begin, instead.