If you are so many lives then how many loves have you lost? Only one, only one. But you loved them all, didn’t you? Or were you just aching for the one you lost? The one who made you, rebuilt you, opened you and stared at your lungs behind your ribs and the heart sitting in wait, beating steady where it lay? Selfish enough to claim her, but she didn’t say no. You are the writing in her book - shared and secret skin - and in equal parts you wonder if your visions ever haunt her the same way she does yours. Or does she see you as you are now? In lesser moments, you hope not. And it’s too confusing, to think that she reached out when you had a gun pressed to your stack, high out of your mind in a piss-soaked alleyway but still clearer than anything. But that’s wrong. Death is right. It’s what you fought for. It’s what you lost.
It’s only fair that you get to reach past your own ribs and pull out your beating heart and give it to her. It’s what you fought for.
She only pushes your hand away.
