The last 3 letters of the spring

Everyone you know is going through something
Everything you know is lost
Everyone you know is losing someone
either a stranger or themselves

It does happen on a random Thursday, and it does hurt like a son of a bitch
It is the blood. It bleaches, and
It's the cotton that's bleached.

It wasn't a greeting 
It wasn't a “lovely seeing you too”
It was 
If my skin has touched your skin
smattering a soulless form
It was
the last one of us, still standing, you poor thing, keep bleeding 
maybe it’s worth dying for, or
bother to tell the difference if it didn’t matter 
It was 
all of me remembers the howling, and
all the feral dogs
scared
It wasn't a brief greeting
rather a softening gasp of the once children
by the look at their steps, shrinking 
walking homeward cold 
and defeated