That's How What Works?

To keep from capsizing, we drilled holes in the ship
Now I'm sketching your t-shirt and how it falls across your chest
I'm a subplot in this story and I'm winding down with my faults on repeat
We'll be better next year if we make it through this year
I'll be better next year. I won't make it through this year
I miss you like a metaphor for your coat missing your bedroom floor after eight weeks of winter.
Or something like that