I remember last year's thaw.

Instead, here we count eyelashes made of lonely guitars, the glaze of your skin breathing on my face. Looking back, when they look back on me, I hope they do not look back upon my looking back, that it is not all they remember. If I didn't remember, I wouldn't cry at familiar songs, but the honeyed static of memory is far too underwhelming to be the bones of life.

Play some old guitars for my sake, for mind's sake. Deafen your fingers on the steel and give it easy. It'll be worth it, I hope. For my sake. For mind's sake.