My chest aches, the way it has been for weeks now, and I rub at it with fingers that are tired of trying to soothe a phantom pain they’ll never be able to fix. Because I’m bleeding out, hanging on the edge of this life, and only her fingers can heal me. Because I’m weak and broken, and only her hands can sustain me. Because I am past dying—every moment I spend without her takes me further away from the verb, from the act of ceasing to live—I am dead, and only her love can revive me.