Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.

This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with Joe as our mouths refuse to part. Who knew all this time I was one kiss away from being Cathy and Juliet and Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Chatterley!?

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

Each time someone dies, a library burns.

How can the word love, the word life, even fit in the mouth?

When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky

grief is a house where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us the mirrors how to reflect us the walls how to contain us grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping grief is a house where no on can protect you where the younger sister will grow older than the older one where the doors no longer let you in or out