How cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling.
The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.
I am yours.
I never wanted you to be mine.
When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.