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.

What kind of world is this? And what do you do about it? What do you do when the worst thing that can happen actually happens?

It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.

I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.

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!?