Today he asked me if I could make him live forever; the vampiric venom of my verses reducing his blood to undying ink.

I said no. I smiled. The reality is that writing buries instead of resurrecting, and that the parts of us we immortalize in syllables and syllogisms are mere ghosts that haunt the living after we are dead.

I said no. I smiled. He left.

…and then I wrote him his eternity.

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