It began with his death. You’d think that’s where it would end.. but that’s actually where it all started. His hands, which were cold when he was alive, felt warm as he laid there dead. His lips that used to be dry and she never wanted to kiss now looked like ripe strawberries. Somehow he was now more handsome than he was in his lifetime. He looked at peace, like a sleeping prince. She could watch him lying there all night long… oh wait, he’s dead! She wants him to wake up. She whispered his name. It was too fragile to be shouted, sounded so pretty to be said aloud. Or maybe she was just trying not to wake him up. Even after they dragged her away from his body, all she could think of was how warm his hands were, how handsome he looked, how she wishes to kiss his lips one last time. And, that’s where the regret and love began. She loved him dead than she did when he was alive.
Does death make us more lovable?