The sheets lay in a disarray as I attempt to make my writing real "Like mountains," she told me, "Like the deer on those mountains gasping for your body and his to blanket the trees during the first snow in November." And the warmth faded over five months ago. Seven, if we're being precise. I want my sentences to end sharply as I send you and the car over a cliff. Put a stone on the pedal and give it a swift kick. Stand there, wind in my hair, a smile on my lips. Whisper while it's followed with the warmth of the breeze singing "I'll burn it all down before everything leaves. I'll set fire to the houses and the people and the trees." And you. You are the flame that never burns dry, the oxygen part of the air in the sky. You are the water that refuses to drown me. Sung, you are the earth under my feet.