It was the cold. I have the cold. It was the sun. I ate the sun. It was the rain. I'm soaked. The sun came back, then I ate it again. That's when blood. It scraped on the charcoal bliss that tied us together. Now it's rain, and I'm throwing jackets on your face, all over the place.

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PS. Wingman says she wants to get married. They all want to get married, someday. My organs are shifting, alternating. I said we.

PPS.
No, it was not remotely about you.

There are other losses that swim through my mind.