I Wonder How Many Times

I Shan't Ever Understand Your Willingness To Lie Down And Die," Felicity Bars. "if You Won't At Least Try To Fight, I Have No Sympathy For You.

I Will Tell You The Story Of How We Found Ourselves In A Realm Where Dreams Are Formed, Destiny Is Chosen, And Magic Is As Real As A Handprint In The Snow.

I Told Myself It Was The Snow—she Couldn’t Possibly Get To Philadelphia On The Roads. I Told Myself A Hundred Lies. Children Do That. It’s Amazing The Sorts Of Things You’ll Make Yourself Believe.

Careful There, Poet. I Might Start To Believe You.

I Stare At The Pile Of Discarded Remnants And Think Of My Mother. Did She Touch That Pillar There? Does Her Scent Still Linger In A Fragment Of Glass Or A Splinter Of Wood? A Terrible Emptiness Settles Into My Chest. No Matter How Much I Go About Living, There Are Always Small Reminders That Make The Loss Fresh Again.