OthelloEd

i'll follow you. we drag our feet through the snow, wetness dampening our shoes and socks. the bags under your eyes aren't all that worrying, but then again, i have them as well. we are walking to the train station, and it will be just around the corner. people meander about around us. they are trying to find a home- their 'somewhere i belong'-type deal. i don't know about you, but i don't think there's anyplace like that for me. we're sitting down on this wooden bench and you light a cigarette. someday, i suppose i'll make you stop. i'm not ready for this. i'm not ready and you're just...leaving. don't leave. if i tell you that, you