That's How What Works

To keep from capsizing, we drilled holes in the ship.

Now I'm sketching your T-shirt and how it falls across your chest.

I'm a sub-plot in this story and I'm winding down with my faults on repeat.

We'll be better next year if we make it through this year.

I'll be better next year. I won't make it through this year.

I miss you like a metaphor for your coat missing your bedroom floor after eight weeks of winter.

Or something like that.