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Her love was a screaming torrent. The deep, gut-wrenching wail of an avalanche. The near-silent cry of sprinkling rain.
Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream. Mine’s a scorched skeleton of flame-forged rage that keeps me upright. Keeps me moving forward.
As I looked at her one final time, wishing she’d grow wings and flutter into the sky so she could ball up and take her place amongst the moons where I’d be able to see her always. So I wouldn’t have to say goodbye.
