February forgot me,
and I swore, myself,
I wouldn’t give my conscience
the chance to look back.
But if you’re asking me now:
I’d rather see you as the ice in my veins,
so I could watch you until you disappeared.
If you were standing by me as I walked away
you could have kept me if you wanted me here.
But at least I’m making strides where the trail is cold,
my hands curled fast around the warmth I hold.
Sometimes its like a brick behind my throat,
now its the heat from her skin, beneath her clothes.