Disclaimer: The characters belong to Dick Wolf and the title of this story belongs to Robert Frost. *sighs dreamily*
Here's your daily dose of Alex/Olivia sadness. Aw . . . The poem referenced in the title is by Robert Frost.
She sits at the grave, not for the first time. She comes here every Sunday and stays for hours, losing herself in memories and ghosts.
She thinks more of sensations than of words. Words have never been what she's good at; she's better with the physical world, and that's why the two of them always fit so perfectly together, complimenting each other's strengths.
She remembers how it felt to have warm arms wrapped around her at night, the way their bodies fit perfectly together like a child's puzzle, the way it felt to absently run her fingers through silky golden tresses before drifting off to sleep. Her fingers tingle with the memory.
She thinks of a poem her girlfriend showed her once; a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nothing gold can stay.
It's true enough, and she wonders if Alex knew.
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