Hindsight

I’m at my best early. And four am is such a cliché. I remember our shared, casual sadness, bathed in a hope that cried for the sun to rise. This human condition is weird. Defined by its humanity. Your body. Where the skin was so soft and where the bones were hard. Those determinations were not yours. And what they wrought was sometimes choice. I like to think of you as soft. But I’m not speaking about touch.