it is a rare talent to love the dead.
you can never put their name down on “Who to call in an emergency”. or show up on the street and take your hand, kissing you in public.
real life relationships are not exciting all the time. cotton not silk. it’s dirty clothes and arguing about small shit. if you laugh with them or you can cry with them, curl up at night and listen to one another, okay. if you have this, stay. stay forever.
if there is no one to curl into your body the whole night long and listen yet again to your little facts and wonders and stroke the cords of your heart. laugh with you and cry for you. then you are living with the dead.
when the dead and the living both are an illusion, when your man doesn’t love you in the small ways that count and the phantom is gone at dawn leaving footprints on your heart, it’s just you and your secrets and your memories.