Eight Perfect Murders (Malcolm Kershaw, #1)

by Peter Swanson

Most of what we had was an incredible closeness, the happiness that comes with finding someone who seems to fit inside of you like a key in a lock. That’s the best metaphor I can come up with. I know it’s trite, but it’s also true. And it was the only time that this type of connection ever happened with me, then or since.

All poems—all works of art, really, seem like cries of help to me, but especially poetry. When they are good, and I do believe there are very few good poems, reading them is like having a long-dead stranger whisper in your ear, trying to be heard.

“Actually, I love you because you’re an old soul in a young man.”