This is real. This is me.

You have no idea how much I want to feel your legs intertwined with mine as we lay asleep, knowing you’re right there and not going anywhere.

Damaged people are dangerous because they know how to survive.

Every widow wakes one morning, perhaps after years of pure and unwavering grieving, to realize she slept a good night’s sleep, and will be able to eat breakfast, and doesn’t hear her husband’s ghost all the time, but only some of the time. Her grief is replaced with a useful sadness. Every parent who loses a child finds a way to laugh again. The timbre begins to fade. The edge dulls. The hurt lessens. Every love is carved from loss. Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-grandchildren’s will be. But we learn to live in that love.

You know you’re fucked when those late night thoughts start hitting you in the middle of the day.