he was kind of terrible

that she could make me weep
at his death -still- despite all
he did is perhaps a sign of her
great storytelling ability or
maybe just my total exhaustion

Blame the book

I have not been sleeping very well lately.  (It comes and goes with and without the pain.)  I'm not sure if that's why all I've felt like doing lately is lying down somewhere with my legs propped up and reading a book.  It might also be good books making me feel that way.  And summer.  Book book book.  I'll blame the book.  This kind of book is definitely part of why I am not an author.  I would much rather read books like this than even write, and I always have.  Mostly unrepentantly.