There wasn’t enough of them left for the ground, so they weren’t put in graves, just commemorative boxes bricked in a wall, memories with matching plaques. What remained didn’t need two spaces, two names would’ve been enough, would have been right. Both of them had burnt together, blended by the fire, their love sealed in death. It should have been romantic. Separating them had felt disrespectful, desecrating the wishes of the deceased, yet it was done, the living’s behest sifted into equal piles of mourning and distributed. Though, who could ever be certain how much of them was them.
She leaves before I decide to ask her to stay. I hear the door click shut and her heels clack away. I lie there with my eyes half closed telling myself I’m still asleep. I pull her pillow close to me and try to paint her in its scent. When she’s asleep I talk about myself. I find things I couldn’t see during the day and lay them end to end at the start of her dreams. I miss her then. She always wakes before I do. I lie there with my eyes half open, hoping she will stay.