He held me in his arms and
sang love songs in my ear.
In that moment he had 
snatched the heart from my chest.
It was the most beautiful thing
anyone has ever done for me.

I am made of the lonely feeling of seeing lights in the distance, standing in the snow in the middle of the night. I am made of the sound of rain on your window as the cold autumn wind seeps through the cracks, chilling your skin. I am made of the silence between the snowflakes. I am made of the endless potentials in the rainbow of skeins in the yarn aisle. I am made of the shimmering motes in the shafts of setting sun light pouring golden through the windows of an empty church on a Tuesday evening. I am made of the scent of strong coffee, the weak waft of menthol cigarettes and a flowery scent that reminds you of your childhood. I am made of the hollow nostalgia one feels as you pass a boarded up old gas station, the only building for miles around, on what was once a busy stretch of highway. I am made of the sound of the wind in the corn. I am made of dappled light on green leaves, swaying over drying creek beds. I am made of forgotten cobble bricks under asphalt in your historic downtown alleyways, sporting moss and dandelions. I am made of faded ribbons tied to fence posts. I am made of the icy pinpricks of stars on a clear moonless night, shining distant and sharp as knives. I am made of the warmth of a cat sleeping peacefully in the sun. I am made of the creaking of floorboards in the abandoned mill you aren't supposed to be in, and the hammering of your heart as you open another door. I am made of the restlessness of youth, sitting on the shingles outside the attic window, wanting to go but not knowing where. I am made of broken clocks, for whom time stands still, but cannot deny the cycle of light and dark outside the window. I am made of shattered glass on the side of the road. I am made of forgotten flowers beds, over flowing here, withered to rattling stalks there, all full of grass and weeds. I am made of echos along dry canyon walls. I am made of  empty sense of accomplishment that video game achievements bring. I am made of collected bits, that I swear I have a use for, eventually, maybe, one day. I am made of book half-read. I am made of shaky hands writing shaky words, begging to be understood.