To love someone is to die repeatedly in their presence, to survive a thousand small deaths by their side.
To drown in your own bed, to have bricks and rocks dropped to the bottom of your soul.
To be left afire and burned alive over and over.
To rise like a Phoenix from the ashes, each time a bit heavier, a bit emptier than the last.
To realize there are more permanent pains than accidents and more permanent scars than death.
To know Hell exists as a very real place.
To arrive at the River Styx, depleted and barren, with only a penny for each window to your soul, for that is all it’s now worth.