I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.
Sometimes I miss the old me.
He has to take me as I am, broken bits and all.
He would bear scars because of me, as I carried them for him.
Possessiveness isn’t love. I’m not even sure it qualifies as an emotion.
We stood back-to-back, blocking and striking in harmony; sometimes it felt like his arms and legs were an extension of me. I could count on him to keep them off me from behind.