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.