When you kiss my lips, you only feel the ghost of hers.

When you run your fingers through my hair, you imagine blonde strands, not brown.

When you stare into my eyes, you're remembering silver ones.

When you whisper my name, you always hesitate.

"Jean," is always on the tip of your tongue.

Then you remember who it is you promised your love to and "Raki," is what comes from your mouth.

"I love you," you assure me.

"I love her," is what you mean.

Because I'm just the replacement, aren't I, Clare?

The cheaper version of kind, noble, loyal Jean who sacrificed herself in Pieta.

Sometimes I wish I'd died instead, just so you could be spared the pain of losing her.

But if playing her part is all I can do, God help me I will.

If being her replacement is what makes you happy, I will shoulder the burden of knowing someone else holds your heart.

I love you, Clare,

And you were never anybody's replacement.