It is gray here. You are gone. I try to keep these two facts separate. I try to convince myself that these are unrelated; that I am wrong. It is gray here. You are gone. I can’t say one without the other, as though you have somehow tied yourself to the sky and rain and sea. It is true, that as I watch the gray water toss I think of us. That the rain on my cheeks reminds me of you. That I feel your pale skin on mine when I look at this gray sky. I try to convince myself that I am not being mimicked in the way the wind howls, loud and lonesome, over this darkened sea. I try to tell myself these two statements are not relevant to each other. But deep down I know:
It is gray here, you are gone, and there is no such thing as coincidence.