And how can it be he's so in love with me? To grow up without love, and still have so much inside?

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

He did seem like a nice boy. Seeming and being are two different things.

Don't Stop ...down, ...Down there ...down where ...monsters, ...Run!

The wind kicks in stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe skeletons. Bones of abandonment. Ghosts that will never be.

Defiance rose up like vomit. I swung back and yelled, "Don't ever do that again!

Loss is loss. Doesn't take death to create it.