He is in the book. He is dead but there he is, in my book and a thank you in the back and he is dead and he never got to see the book. And I never got to tell him he is in the book.
Sometimes I don't care how much others care about me. My own care is enough. It is huge. Sometimes their reciprocation is just a nice thing that happens if it does. Often my love is enough.
Other times I feel the lack of care from them and I would cut my love off cold, a severed vein, the last of my concern gushing out of me, leaving me pale and emptied out.
I love you. I've always loved you. I think about you every day.
I want to stamp my feet at the complications of this love. I want to rage and cry and rage again. I want to tear it up. I will not love like that. It is unfair for him to have loved like that. Someone stop me from loving like that.
How can you not love me? How could I not love him? Why did he chose to love me so stubbornly? What a stupid fucking waste of all that love. What a stupid fucking waste.
Two people in my book now dead. And all the love running out onto the floor where it will make a mess and have to be cleaned up anyway.