I am putting out the lights.

The darkness smells of candle wax. In the borrowed light coming in through the window, I am writing my memories of you. Such that no one will ever see them later. Not even me.

I live under my blanket, I cringe under the weight of all those layers. The cold night air weighs down on me like leftover guilt.

I fall asleep at some point. I wake up to the street lamps dozing off against the pink sky.