We forgot to build a snowman,
and we melted--
Guess who melted first.

But before we turned eighteen,
or even fifteen,
questions rolled into our houses
like sick bulldozers
for sick families.
I was never happy with the way
we held our hands together after
you started wearing those gloves.

I remember clearly
how you worded it when
you decided not to take my
"no" for an answer,
but I can't quite recall how you
pronounced it,
and your voice is all but totally replaced
with Lindsay Lohan's in my head:

"Now I'm writing to impress you,
and I hate that."

Sweet. There's the door.
Leave the pencil.