the pine needles brush against my
skin too big for these bones.
what is it like to feel comfortable,
why do i feel anything but normal always?
i want to feel as if i'm the top of these
trees, something bigger than myself.
i flick my cigarette like it's a habit i cannot break to reassure i'm still alive.
the smoke rises higher and higher, but
not high enough to be noticed.
i want to be seen behind closed curtains,
am i really even there?
for that i lay and rest these weary eyes
until i'm nothing,
just another plane lost on radar buried
underneath a thick snowy blanket.

remember me not, but don't forget me.

sincerely yours,