I’m always tragic. 

My very birth was tragic. 

My mother had me standing up, almost killed her. I didn’t, but it always plagues me. So I hold her in my heart and she held me in her belly. Evens out I think.

How was I supposed to know that I was gonna meet the love of my life at 38? 

How was he to know? 

We walked around, him in snow, me in humidity, clueless that life had her own plans for us. This world, this world that erupts and shakes is only here temporarily. It all seems so fragile after an earthquake, a tsunami, a hurricane. 

We are nothing. 

So love hard. 

Love and love and love and love and then love some more.

We are temporary nothings pretending to be somethings. 

We use paper to buy costumes. 

To look like we have shit figured out. 

To pretend that our fragility is a farce. 

We give of ourselves to predators and sometimes we break some hearts. 

We solidify, become calloused and then slice open our chests again, and again, repeat repeat repeat.

Back to tragedy.

When he is away, I feel tired, lethargic. 

Innocence intact.

He’s a warlock. 

Banishes ghosts. 

Indulges in love and doesn’t cloud his feelings. 

Wears them like an amulet. 

Knows we’re only here this once, so he lives passionately. 

Wants answers, but knows there are none. 

Loves me like children love. 


I think of catastrophic events, I think of the possibility of being far from him when the Earth decides to swallow itself up. 

I wonder if he’ll feel me dying? 

If I’ll feel him slipping back to the cosmos?

If the crows that follow us when we’re apart will come to assure us that the other is somewhere thinking of this great love?

Death doesn’t scare me anymore. 

I’ve died a million times, the difference now, is that I’m alive. 


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