Cycle:

The air is thick and cold
the kind I ache for
endlessly, bitterly,
striking across my skin
freezing my fingers
turning me to dust
there's a bird
with pretty black wings
he doesn't know it
but I've named him Meg
there's a boy
whose all right for me
but I'll say nothing to him
and he'll never notice me
he wears a caramel sweater
and smiles at me before crossing the street
I could smile
should have, would have, ought to of
but I walked to class
and so goes the cycle.