I wander these rows of final rest with nothing to do but miss you. This ache of longing is a small death all its own.
I run my fingertips along the hard, etched letters of your name, wishing for the warmth of your flesh instead of the chill of your stone.
How unfair it is that it should still be smooth to the right of your birthdate, while my own date of death has been carved for six months.
We bought these plots side by side so we could lie together.
Now all I can do is wait for you.
Amber Simpson writes because the voices in her head tell her to.