The piebald mare paws at the sand; I see her digging out of the corner of my eye and hear her grinding her teeth. That bridle's her curse, this island her prison. She still smells of rot.

This is Rilke. I wish I had written it for you.

And Ronan was everything that was left: molten eyes and a smile made for war.

I try very hard to keep my eyes from darting to Sean because I'm quite certain that no one will be able to miss how I look at him and how I find him looking back.

I don't care for werewolves. They're all right, I guess, if you go for the shedding, savaging the country-side thing. But they're not very scary nor very sexy and so what's the point?

Boys like him didn't die; they got bronzed and installed outside public libraries.

The fact was, I didn't know if I was built for happy endings.