The last few weeks, it was as if someone had taken his life to pieces and let him see the way it worked.

. . . my bones they'll burn or bury. It'll be my death.

The inside of the door is glossy white. A total re-paint. I touch it with my fingers, but it stays the same. It's so bright it makes the room waver at the edges. Every few years we disappear.

Every breath, every heartbeat, was one less until maybe things stopped hurting this much.

Adam strokes my head, my face, he kisses my tears. We are blessed. Let them all go. The sound of a bird flying low across the garden. Then nothing. Nothing. A cloud passes. Nothing again. Light falls through the window, falls onto me, into me. Moments. All gathering towards this one.

Don't pretend to care. I don't need you as an anesthetic.

Was this love? Because it hurt. It was like a bit of glass stuck somewhere important--his heart or his head, and it was throbbing.