What comfort not to suffocate. 

Not to love. 
Not to hurt, to want, to grieve. As if grief is not only my right, my prerogative, my due, but my comeuppance. I caress the grief as I once caressed him; as long as it’s here, he is here; as long as I’m pretending to live, I can be near him. I’ve paused over it, one, two, three years nearly, going on the fourth cartwheel of despair, I’m bereaved, let me alone, and let me gaze at the grief with my passion and my ardor. 
We thought I was strong. We thought I could make it. We thought I could live through it all. 
But we were wrong. 
I just can’t seem to live through you. 
Though I want to. I want to so much.

– Tatiana & Alexander
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