Fragmented memories of pine needles in my hair,
the smell of resentment riding on cool breezes,
I don't recall you being there.
Just me in the middle of all my glory.
I smile and say, "You look like clouds on a Saturday".
Compose yourself, I have no time for a story.
How ironic it all must have been.
As I walked away,
leaving you the one, to bare my sin.
How sweet it is....