So I wrote you a letter

I gave you my number

I asked you, "How are you?"

And you would hardly mutter

You're too busy with your life

And I'd try to stop mine for you

But I'm just too complicated

Not simple, not pure, not true

Or too.

I hid under my blankets, pulled over my head even though the sun was shining outside, and it was bright where I lay on my bed. But I felt so dark and scared. I just want someone to find me.

So, I walked through town on the day that you died, but you didn't. You were still alive. My breath made puffs of smoke in the air, and I didn't care. I didn't know. But I thought of you and wondered when you'd come find me.

The sun set much earlier and the time did change. Maybe we're the same when you don't talk to me. I don't know what you want, and I don't say what I mean, and I'm still waiting for you to find me.

I think this winter will last far too long even if it's starting later than usual. I'm just right here, under the blankets on my bed, and I'd call for you if I knew you wanted to find me. If I could be found.