who we are and all that we're trying to be
The magnitude of it all layered and lacquered against them, and it was a tempestuous, mercurial storm brewing in the granules of loss. Timing off; everything wrong, fleeting, broken, splintered, fractured, and he didn’t know what to say in the wake of it. There were stings and nettles biting through the torrential requiems, and he didn’t know whether to hang his head or simply sink into the stone, encased in marble. Instead he simply listened, swallowing down the rancor, eyes on the shrine, uncertain of where to look or what to do. Amalia was allowed to grieve. They all were. Perhaps it’d been his own ambitions and aspirations for her to come, for her to be healed then and there, that had been the error. Too soon, too grave, too beleaguered. He’d wanted it to matter, and maybe that was just too late now.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
