I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?

I wanted so badly to tell him, but something about that entire night seemed so beautiful, so bizarre, that I didn't trust it with my secrets.

Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.

You can't be afraid. You can be sad if you like. You can be angry. But it's the fear that'll freeze you in place.

I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.

Rhine. The river that, somewhere out there, has broken free.