There is something about the way I have gone soft that reminds me of him, or maybe it is my period. Not technically something to "have" but rather to "have not" an interior, a wall, a future, or sex. It is a rejection of structure, a demolition of the scaffolding I never notice anyhow, like walking through Manhattan. It is the same old renewal, the ouroboros paradox of life and death and nothing created nor un-had, or lost. My silver lining is made of dead cells but it is generous enough to dispense over days.