Agency is the one redeeming thing about being the subject of someone’s great unhappiness. If I had been the one to do this to you, if I was the weight that bore down upon your shoulders, then at least I could be of some use. I swear, I would wrap my arms around the whole of your infinite sadness and I would bury it in the bedrock, or I would be the anchor that dragged it to the bottom of the ocean, or I would take all of the birds in the world and I would tie a cable to this fucking thing and I would fly it off into the atmosphere.
But that’s not how it is.
All I can do is watch as this sequesters you, as it, one by one, turns off of the lights in the sky and dresses you in the black folds of your grief and makes me impossibly, impossibly small.
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