He’s a sum of what he’d ever been.
An ordinary baby. A skinny little boy. Son, brother, friend, student… I’ve never known any of them, but they’re mirrored in my lover. Sharp teeth and a sharp sense of humour. Strong arms and a strong protective instinct. Rebellious hair and a rebellious nature.
I know the smell of his tears and the taste of his laughter.
People tell me, it’s been years, I should be over it. But the fact that he’s dead doesn’t change the sum of all he’d ever been.
It just means there won’t ever be any more.
I’m not sure if it counts as biography if it’s subjective and from the point of view of an unreliable narrator… does it?
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