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As long as you are alive, it is never too late to be found.
“Sometimes I hate what I love,”
It was easy to love someone in the beginnings and endings; it was all the time in between that was so hard.
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By the time the poem ended, Avery didn’t feel that she wanted him, exactly; she wanted to be him.
Drug dependency, it turned out, was an effective suppressor of independence.
“Sometimes I think you forget that I’m the one who found her. Right there.” She pointed to a spot on the bedroom floor. Her voice was quiet but there was a hardness to it Avery didn’t often hear. “You’re right that Nicky’s death didn’t only happen to Lucky. But it also didn’t only happen to you.”
