snow falls in the midwest.

My friend was anxiously waiting for an airplane. I was patiently waiting for anything. The snow fell. I was left with nothing but six strings, four chords, and the random thoughts echoing inside my head. I recall, at least once, letting her take a drag of my cigarette. She handed it back and I did the same. I could taste her lips on the filter as I watched her casually exhale. Life is well dressed as a story, and if that story was a book, I’d be happy with the page I’m on.