The words slow. My body goes soft. There are letters to send, but I spend the morning making love instead. Singing in the shower. Burning incense. While he’s gone, I keep his memory pressed against my chest, like an ember that warms me down to the toes. Happiness is easy. We heat up pasta at two in the morning and watch TV shows that ended years ago. In the safety of our blankets we are just as likely to devour one another as we are to sleep. How can it be like this? How could I spend years thinking if there wasn’t blood, or tears, or pain, it wasn’t real? I move towards him without thought or effort. We are weightless. We are floating on this.


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