My body Healed quickly. But the wound to my psyche was deep. Wide. First aid, too little, too late, left me hemorrhaging inside, the blood unstaunched by psychological bandage or love's healing magic. Eventually it scabbed over, a thick, ugly welt of memory. I work to conceal it, but no matter how hard I try, once in a while something makes me pick at it until the scarring bleeds. In my arms, Ashante cries, innocence ripped apart by circumstance. Bloodied by inhuman will. Time will prove a tourniquet. But she will always be at risk of infection. (124)

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

Possibilities ...in the closet ...itching ...to break out ...but afraid of ...the fallout

Love without trust is nothing more than infatuation.

Love is more than blind. It’s brain-dead.

Would I ever find forever love? Do I really want to, when forever was a word without meaning?

They think old people are lame. But they're not. They're awesome, & I know exactly why I think so. It's because they've lived entire lifetimes. Loved. Laughed. Surrendered. Stumbled. Weathered, beaten, still they don't crumble, not even as they inch toward death.