And when that midnight blackness does bear down, wraps it razor blade-studded tentacles around your throat, you take your beating and you towel off and bandage up and you keep on truckin’. If you can.
You know what happened to James Dean? Yes, I thought so.
We truly loved each other. I am sure of that. But there’s no solace in the past tense.
So she is gone. She is not coming back. And my heart is still resting fragilely in its chest cavity like a vase that’s been broken and carefully glued back together.