the dawn erupts; paper shadows flit across my face. ghost-like, i turn to close the window with ink-smudged hands. a chill breeze flies in and talks to me; it tells me a secret I have heard many times before. It speaks your name, the word yesteryear, love. its coldness speaks the unspoken, answers too sad to say. every morning it used to be you. but now it is the wind that caresses my face.