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.