I am a machine.

He always had cold feet in the winter. Even with socks and a blanket he'd feel cold.
'Cold heart, cold skin', they'd always say, as if somehow it was his own fault he could never get warm.

It was the winter before last, wasn't it? Just when the bed required another blanket, the evenings becoming that few degrees colder.
Were we new? It felt as if being together was the oldest thing in the world, more natural than breathing, in fact.
Did you know that I stop reading in March? I've recorded the number of books I read each month and March is always the lowest.
'It's because it's near your birthday. No one likes to read on their birthday!'
I do.
I still can never explain why I just... Stop. For a whole month.

The streets are always quiet in that town. They were the sort of streets you'd play games on as a child, have your first kiss on, the ones you could lie down on, in the middle and just stare at the sky.
I liked to watch the stars.
'What's so good about them? They've stayed that way for millions of years, I doubt anything new could be up there now'
Always the voice of skeptiscism.
'You don't know that.'
'Don't know what?'
I shivered. I pressed myself against the faint warmth of the bitumen, trying to capture the remnants of a sun long set. 'Nothing.'

I never did belong to you. To anyone. Never have I belonged to any group of people, the way some belong to a particular subculture of shared interests. It's all about relatablility.
I have had friends. You were once my friend. But never have I fit in entirely.
Always to myself, owned by my imagination.