3:06am. Living in our cardboard boxes, we were always nomadic laughing and screaming as we ran into oncoming traffic. Her skin is narcotic. I am a fiend, her lips are morphine and I'm starting to get nauseous. The vertigo makes an open sign start to read closed. xoxo. Her fingers are frail from the years we refused to ever let go. Hallucinations in April of fallen angels and powdered snow and the only feeling was the bite of unspoken words in the back of my throat.