Death lives in the too-quiet silences, in the deepest parts of night. Death makes a home in the moments of stiffness, the seconds before a fall; in the heavy-hearted candor of the surgeon’s hands, the archer’s bow, the executioner’s axe,
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“I love it when you say my name,” he says. “I don’t even know why.”
“Warner isn’t your name,” I point out. “Your name is Aaron.”
His smile is wide, so wide. “God, I love that.”
"Your name?”
“Only when you say it.”
“Aaron? Or Warner?”
His eyes close. He tilts his head back against the wall. Dimples.”
― Unravel Me
“Warner isn’t your name,” I point out. “Your name is Aaron.”
His smile is wide, so wide. “God, I love that.”
"Your name?”
“Only when you say it.”
“Aaron? Or Warner?”
His eyes close. He tilts his head back against the wall. Dimples.”
― Unravel Me
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