After a shower, sometimes I catch myself, sideways, through peripheral vision, or over my shoulder in the bathroom mirror, jowly, proportionally middle aged, love handled, and I wonder where in hell you are. Which thing of mine was yours to not necessarily give, either thrust upon or stolen.
You've three wives, and six kids I know of. And alive, somewhere warm, maybe taking someone's pulse, or your own, maybe forgetting your keys, losing your way home.
I don't know you, have never seen you.
Thank you for the back hair. It marks the spot where the wings were torn off.