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.