tonight the music is the same; no glitter or fuss, just an excuse to forget.

it's a February blizzard which is the coldest kind
and we'll stand outside, smog-laced snowflakes caress our faces and I'm standing three feet from your body
but I'm warm because I feel close...
or maybe it's the rye.

I've been clutching this bottle more so lately, it's been holding on to me
to the point where I can't see
but that's a trite story, except for the February blizzard,
but even so… it's snow, it's cold.
it's biting, frosty, white blanket kind of cold.
it's a dampness inside of your bones kind of cold.
it's red-nosed winter blues, thirty below with a leather coat, and I'm warm because I forget.