Image by .mands. via Flickr
Same as the fact of my own death, my love for you is always with me.
But after the initial intensity of discovery, the knowledge recedes.
Periodically it cycles up and gives me a drenching. "Oh!" I say. "This is what it's like. Yes. How could I have forgotten?" But soon I fail
to remember yet again. Life intervenes: it needs to stay separate from love, and death, while simultaneously requiring both.
But unlike love, which often ends, death is steadfast. "Hullo," it says cheerily one day. "I have not forgotten you."
"Anna Louise"
