The last time I saw you, you were stone-faced and tattered. The last time I told you, you said you felt safe. But I'm no protector, and you were no savior of mine. The last day I'd left you, you told me I'd mattered. The last day you spoke it, you knew me too well: I'd been defective, and my words had no stories to tell. I couldn't tell by the way that you smiled. So where did you go, sullen windstorm's daughter? Where will you rest those eyes? And what should I keep, in this frail and vivid picture? What will you leave, in time? The days when you loved me, you said I was addled. Distraught, and dependent. Just a portrait you observed. In truths you'd omitted: a record, one year's score. You asked me not to leave then, you couldn't change me anymore. And I don't think I could have, I don't think I should. So where will you sleep, wide-eyed winter's fire? Where will you make your bed? The burns that you'd left blurred space for the better. They'll tell the same means to an end. This winter's miles deep, and I hope you won't miss me. This winter's miles deep and I expect for it to drown me.