Winter

You write to me in soot laden notebooks and the margins of your favourite books before you ever gave me a name. I wonder who you imagined me to grow into then. 

I know you think we could’ve been friends, and I’m certain our similarities outweigh our differences. So much so though, that our struggles parallel. We’re strapped to the same subway line, seconds apart from the same pitiful fate. 

You could not have saved me, less you could yourself.