I still remember the way your lips pursed and your forehead furrowed with that sexy thoughtful look when I asked you: If I go back to when we met, how could I explain it? What would you expect your own self to believe, knowing you as you do?
for what are bones if not seeds waiting to be planted, what are bodies if not secrets promised, what is war if not a waiting harvest
when teind-time came, there was no one to save him, save himself.
