An Excerpt From a Book I'll Never Write: Three Years Later

And three years later, I'm dancing around my kitchen in my underwear with a bottle of cheap wine in my hand. The windows are wide open, letting in the fresh November air and letting out the smoke of my loosely rolled cigarette. I feel bits and pieces of you escape my breath with every exhale. The neighbors are awake and shoot occasional glances at me from the window, but I don't mind. For the first time in years, I feel the lightness within me. I'm loosening the chains, the doubts, the regrets that you'd pile on the shelves of my heart. Your charm rearranged the notes of my heart, changing the rhythm to something more desirable by your terms. For a while, you made it summer in my heart. You made the dusty clouds dissipate with the light from your deceiving  sunlit smile. For a moment, I almost forgot that I preferred winter.