Another season came and went. I came out crying, dressed for the occasion, still vain enough to wonder what the other guy looked like. There are hardly any photographs. Apparently I was here. The sky is blue again. The trees are still bare. The calendar insists there is winter left. Let it. I have reached the end of mine. There are things I lost I sometimes want back. Not today. There is a city I keep asking to become home. I’m not sure how much longer I will stay. There was a version of me who spent too much of the season in bed. He got me here. I don't resent him. Not today.

I was reading this and just for a moment I remember the lyrics on my own by Les miserables. On my own, pretending he is beside me. All alone I walk with him till morning with. without him, I feel his arms around me, and when I lose my way…he has found me. But I know it’s only in my mind that I’m talking to myself and not to him and although I know that he’s blind still I say there’s a way for us