Pale and yellow, and red in her cheeks; her beauty irrelevant, as was time, and our hearts.
"Do you have anything to say? To me? Anything? Anything at all?"
Everything—I everything you.
Inhale, "I won't share you."
"Well, that's okay." Exhale.
"I'm not yours to share, anyway."
His? And his, and his, and his. Of course.
Beautifully fucking up my life. And I'll wait. Of course, of course.