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February forgot me, and I swore, myself, I wouldn't give my conscience the chance to look back. But if you're asking me now: I'd rather see you as the ice in my veins, so I could watch you until you disappeared. If you were standing by me as I walked away you could have kept me if you wanted me here. But at least I'm making strides where the trail is cold, my hands curled fast around the warmth I hold. Sometimes its like a brick behind my throat, now its the heat from her skin, beneath her clothes.