I have blush and burgundy carnations right now–they are romantic in a horrible sense. In a bleached post-mortem sense, when your lover dies and the pigment bleeds out of life. Everything is duller without their presence and now it haunts you. You knew how good life could be so the world snatched it away; dropped you on your back and before us who still cannot look at the sun or the moon or the stars and know they are aligning for our good. I ache from grief I have yet to earn. I have only seen a fragment of the light.