You have to understand, when it hurt to love her, it hurt the way the light hurts your eyes in the middle of the night, but I had to see.
Someone who’ll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class’s heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.
Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.
Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.
Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.
how locations become intricately tied to
people. how home feels no longer like a place but
noise: a rustling of the bed on your side.