It's a physical sickness. How much I love him.
I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing.
I love that.
I love his boyish laugh and his wrinkled shirts and his ridiculous knitted hat. I love his large brown eyes,and the way he bites his nails,and I love his hair so much I could die.
Good memories can leave even more of a mark or a scar on your heart as the bad times, and the bad memories, and the slamming doors, and the fights. So when I say that I write about things that haunt me, they’re not always about bad ghosts.