today. it snows. and i stare out the windows searching the infinite patterns of the universe. for some resemblance of you. me. even with the shades shut. i can hear you like fingernails on skin just on the otherside of my life. while i tear the weekend newsprint into jagged edged paper hearts. i want to soak the words into water and pulp. extract the mass of letters and ink into something more plausible than a mess of misshapen moments that have left me stained and half naked on the floor of my living room. i always swear that i won't go crazy. that i'll comb my hair and sleep normal hours. that i won't rage and rave like a lunatic who lost a lover ten thousand years ago and never knew how to recover. when i couldn't write about the opposing sides of love. and windows. and the coldness of winter was a red sweater you wore once hushed into the corner of the bathroom with my name caught in the back of your throat. i am not love's blood and guts sidewalk. anymore. in the mornings when i press my face into the space of the sheets of your scent after you've gone.