147.

in the winter, which is coming sooner than we thought,
we become a cold and nameless memory
and I go back to just wanting a goddamn cigarette.

in the summer at least we were melancholy
and made of a little missing each other.
when the frost comes
we will be blurs.

remembering is for the springtime,
but by then, the picture you kept of me will have faded
and my smile will be lost in someone else's
in the back of your pocket.

and I will be here, still, thumbing through
the notes you left for me, reading them aloud
to a few empty chairs.

the summer is over.
winter is the season for staying in,
because the roads between our hands have iced over,
and I guess your tires are
too weak for this.

I'll go back to warming my throat with whiskey
since you won't be here to kiss it,

and I don't know where you'll go.