In a thousand years, when I’ve all but forgotten how to love yet again, you’ll flit back into my heart, and I’ll weep, wondering what happened to my mad love.

You could've asked me to do the same - to throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned. But you didn’t. And I’m grateful.

It’s been seven years since I left. It’s no paradise - but it’s home. And it’s worth saving.

You were never burdened with intelligence, but your load seems to be especially light these days.