Did he die well?" No, I thought. Nobody did. They just died.
His reply offers infinite solace in a single word. Always.
Men always want to be remembered whereas women realize that requires being dead.
He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.
He has to take me as I am, broken bits and all.
He'd said the sun could burn me. It certainly looked angry enough, all orange and glowing mad.