The Dead Romantics

by Ashley Poston

There’s some great rat races down at the Eighteenth Street Station.” “Do you go often?” “Absolutely, there’s even a squeak-easy.” “Wow, you’re a real mice-stro of puns.”

une putain d’idiote.

I began to realize that love wasn’t dead, but it wasn’t forever, either. It was something in between, a moment in time where two people existed at the exact same moment in the exact same place in the universe.

Love wasn’t a whisper in the quiet night. It was a yelp into the void, screaming that you were here.

“I like being around you, too.” “Because I’m the only one who can see you.” “Yes,” he replied, and my heart began to sink into my chest, until he added, “but not because I’m a ghost, Florence.”

“I wish…I had closed my office door after you walked in and kissed you until you saw stars.”

“I would drive you crazy,” I commented. “Florence, you already do.”

“Everything that dies never really goes. In little ways, it all stays.”

“These last few days have been…beautiful. It’s a good ending, darling. As your editor, I have no notes.”

love was never a matter of time, but a matter of timing.