and Dylan
and Siobhan
and everyone else
stupid enough to love you."
But instead,
Mickey's shoulders rise
and fall
in the longest,
fiercest
breath
I've seen him take in months.
He closes his eyes
and pulls the head of the guitar
toward his own,
presses the pegs
against his forehead,
so hard,
that when he turns
to look straight at me,
not through me,
there's a dent
in his skin.
"Thank you."
And then.
(Uh-oh.) He starts to cry.
I haven't seen this
since the night I died.
I don't know what to do.
But Krista does.
She kneels before him
and takes the guitar from his lap.
He sinks forward
into her arms,
adding his tears
to the water from her hair
speckling her new shirt.