Pull me down to where you are. -17 at 6 o’clock on a January morning and I think of you when the heater in my car finally kicks in. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but where does that leave a feeling? Something too big for words, and too personal for a picture. Something idealistically left as a thought that only I truly understand. I’ve wanted to write you a poem for 686 days, but I can’t find a way to fit biased perfection into something meant for everyone.