Dead ends.

I loved the fire, and I loved the fury. When she ran hot I did everything I could to meet her, our pulsating raw energies melting into supernova. When she blazed at me I took it, holding firm for her to scorch. It was glorious.

Sometimes she burned out for hours or days at a time. Maybe it was depression, maybe a vitamin-D deficiency. Those times I could mother her, tend to her.

Saying “I miss this person” barely covers the hollowed-out experience of living without the person you raged with. I am spent and purposeless.