Night, Our night. We were supposed to win. We were supposed to come as a tide, Washing over all the nonbelievers, Our molecules mixed into a cauldron with anyone else who has ever fathomed making a difference in an indifferent world. We were supposed to win. We were meshed together in a way where I bought into this. I bought a drug for this crippling disease. Yet, I’ve known this to be cureless. Cureless, as my affections for you. Cureless, as the afflicted home we live in. ****** by society, we sat in our lonely, empty space. I couldn’t speak a sound; you were the one who had enough air to speak. We were supposed to win. Now, not so much. Now, I don’t remember it meaning as much to me as I had once thought. The oxygen may have been from extracted my body, but, by god, Losing has soul.