The morning grass felt cool upon my feet and for the first time in a long time and I didn't mind being up before the birds. Everything is so much quieter before the sun rises above the trees. These are the summer morning I find myself dreaming about in January. These words are not for you and they don't have to make sense, when you peel skin away there are just piles of mistakes where my bones should be anyway. I prefer it that way. I'm harder to break. Not that it matters. These words are not for you. For once they are for no one but me. Someday soon I will forget the path that spells your name. It probably won't be tomorrow, and I know it wasn't yesterday, but I can feel the ink receding. You are no longer my anchor and these words are no longer your slaves.
 
These words are not for you.