Truth of it is that we don’t lose our loved ones when they do take their leave from us. Love if it is real, is never about possession and one cannot lose what is not owned, rather it is we have lost a part of ourselves to them.

Houses I find are commonly haunted by the memory of the dead, men however are more often than not haunted by the memory of the living.

A lover is far crueler than any enemy. For when an enemy grievously wounds, more often than not, one dies. With a lover however, the wounds they leave do not kill, but hurt as if they should have anyways.

The loss of the living.

Sometimes we find ourselves not mourning of the dead, that grief is easier. No, mourning the loss of the living, the people that left despite them not departing this world.