On our good days, it felt like taking a warm shower in a cold rain. On our bad days, the shower was cold, and the rain warm.
What that means in a precise way I cannot tell you; I was never the precise part of that relationship; but I can say with a feeling of certainty, I can say without feeling wrong for having said it, that you are neither the rain nor the shower nor the temperature inside or out. You are neither the fogged glass door nor the beaded one. You are not the chirping of the insects, the scurrying of the woodland creatures, the pickled skin of my neck, the flush of my chest in the cannon blast, the gasp that comes from knowing what will happen without being able to feel it, and then feeling it.
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