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 ^{(it's beta!)}

Nothing's harder than staring at that blank piece of paper. Standing feet frozen in the emptiest spot in the room, arms flailing, trying to find direction, something to hold on to. It's been long since the cigarettes helped you through the night, but is it her fault? It's only been a week, or a month. Her words, her smile.

And now feeling stuck never felt so tangible.

And you lazily force yourself to watch anything on tv, while upstairs, the polar opposite of loneliness parades, and above them, it's freezing.

The spare change in your back pocket is useless here and now, and it's not even yours to begin with. Lovely novel ways to waste it tomorrow come to mind, through vague plans of being in places where you'll do things... But in the morning, you'll figure out it can all wait till tomorrow, so instead of the money, you waste the day, but there's nothing lovely or novel about it anymore.

So what if it is her fault?