The Temporary Nature of Any Precious Thing [3/3]

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Title: The Temporary Nature of Any Precious Thing
Author: enigmaticblue
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters; too bad, so sad.
Pairings/Characters: Buffy/Spike
Spoilers: Through mid-S6, although it’s more than a bit AU. Takes place after my fic Certain Dark Things
Word Count: ~12,500
Summary: The things you most want to hold onto, the things that are most precious, are always temporary.
A/N: Written for seasonal_spuffy fall 2015 round. To look back, I realized that the last fic I’d written for SS was Certain Dark Things, and was a ‘verse I’d always intended to revisit. Coming around full circle, the title for the first fic in this series was from a Lucinda Williams song; this title is from a Lucinda Williams’ song of the same name.
A/N2: I find the question of whether a vampire can suffer from something like PTSD to be a fascinating question. From the beginning of S3, and Angel’s slow recovery, I would assume that it’s possible.

Part III: The Deepest Saddest Joys

Buffy had nearly forgotten about the box under her bed. She was scrounging for a pair of boots, ones she’d worn before and had broken in just right, but that had disappeared over the course of the summer.

She could have asked Dawn or Willow, to see if someone had taken them, or if maybe the ‘bot had worn them and left them somewhere, but—

She couldn’t. Buffy just couldn’t right now, and her lost boots seemed a bridge too far, and she was on the edge of tears when she spotted it.

The shoebox was dusty and a little battered, the writing on the side faded from years of storing a pair of heels she’d broken while patrolling one night. For a brief moment, she couldn’t remember what was in it, and she pulled it out with the tears still threatening, and then it hit her.


Buffy set the lid aside and picked up the first postcard in the pile; there were only about half a dozen of them, plus the book of Tennyson’s poems Spike had left for her, the page still dog-eared.

She couldn’t hold back the sobs then, as she remembered coming home to cuddle with her mom, while Joyce read Tennyson until Buffy had fallen asleep.

At the time, Buffy had believed that Spike leaving was the worst thing that could happen; she’d had no idea how much worse things could get.

And she now had her doubts that things would ever get better.

“Buffy!” Dawn called. “Are you home?”

Buffy swallowed her sobs and hastily dried her tears, not wanting Dawn to see her like this. She was broken, but her sister was happy to have her back. Buffy was trying not to begrudge her that.

“In my room!” she called, and quickly shoved the shoebox under the bed. She could look at it later, remind herself of how it had felt to be the strong one for a change.

Dawn burst through the door a few seconds later. “Janice invited me over for dinner. Can I go?”

Buffy hoped she hid the sigh of relief. If Dawn was eating at Janice’s, she wouldn’t have to figure out what to make for dinner out of the meager offerings in the pantry. “That’s fine. Be home by ten?”

Dawn let out a frustrated huff. “Come on, Buffy. It’s Friday night. I should be able to stay out later than that!”

Buffy bit back the response that sprang immediately to mind, that she was in charge, and Dawn would do as she was told. She was tired, certainly too tired and too empty to fight with her sister right now. Especially considering that Buffy had forgotten that it was Friday, and would have given Dawn a later curfew if she’d remembered.

“Eleven then,” Buffy said, half-order and half-peace offering.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Fine. Eleven.”

The flounce was expected, but Buffy couldn’t muster the energy to even be annoyed. She was having a hard time caring about much of anything these days, in between bouts of a weariness that weighed her down.

She heard the front door slam and knew Dawn was gone. Willow was probably studying, and Buffy—

Well, she should probably eat something and then patrol, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that either.

Buffy wandered out onto the back porch and sat on the steps, watching as the sun set, and the light faded. She wondered what might happen if she went out on patrol tonight and just—didn’t try. Would her friends bring her back a second time? Would she ever be allowed to rest?

“Wasn’t expecting to see that expression on your face again, Slayer.”

The voice, coming from a shadowy corner of her yard, startled her—and didn’t. She’d thought about Spike for the first time since her resurrection today, and here he was.

“What expression?”

“The fire’s gone out,” he replied, and swaggered into the light.

His swagger was back, Buffy realized. He didn’t hold himself so warily, and he didn’t look as tightly wound as when he’d left. He was wearing dark jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a leather jacket, his hair still bleached, but a little curly.

He looked good, and so alive and vibrant, and Buffy wondered if it were even possible for him to breathe some of that life into her.

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” Buffy said, rather than addressing his unspoken question.

“Had to see a demon about something,” Spike replied evasively. “Then had to get back here. The trip took a little longer than I expected.”

“Are you staying?” Buffy asked, and didn’t know what she wanted the answer to be.

Something in Spike’s face softened, and he stepped toward her, his body language changing, although Buffy wasn’t sure what it meant. “I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

“It’s a free country,” Buffy replied, but she felt a little frisson of pleasure.

“Mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free country,” she repeated and felt a smile tilt her lips.

How long had it been since she smiled?

Spike sat next to her, then patted his pockets, coming up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shook one out and then lit it with practiced motions, taking a deep drag and blowing out the smoke away from her.

Buffy watched him and felt pleasure in that, too, remembering the girl she’d been what seemed like a hundred years ago, when Spike had sat in the window of her shitty apartment and breathed life back into her again.

When he offered her the cigarette, Buffy took it and puffed hesitantly, feeling the burn of smoke in her lungs.

At least she could feel that much.

“You want to tell me what’s been going on since I left?” Spike asked.

Buffy did and she didn’t. She wanted him to know, but she didn’t want to try to find the words either. “It’s a lot.”

“Figured that,” Spike agreed. “Who died?”

“Why do you ask?”

“From the look on your face, someone did,” Spike replied. “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “Mom. Mom died. And—and me.”

Spike didn’t say anything for the longest time, and then he draped an arm around Buffy’s shoulders and held her close, and Buffy let herself lean into his strength.


Spike’s first stop upon arriving in Sunnydale had been his old crypt, where he planned to set up residence again, at least for the time being. His second stop probably should have been the Watcher, given the little Buffy told him.

He hadn’t pushed for more information when she said that Joyce had died, and that she had, too. He’d seen how hard it was for her to say that much, and Spike had returned to make her life easier, not to reopen barely-healed wounds.

Spike still remembered how impossible it had been to speak about what he had suffered at the hands of the Initiative soldiers, how he hadn’t wanted Buffy to see his weakness, or to know about his nightmares.

He’d get the full story from someone else, some other time.

“Do you want to patrol?” Spike asked after he felt the silence had gone on long enough. “I could go with you.”

“I have to be back by eleven,” Buffy warned him. “Dawn should be home then, unless Janice asks her to spend the night.”

There was a moment when Spike had absolutely no idea what Buffy was talking about, and then he remembered the Slayer’s sister, not that he’d ever had much to do with her. His sympathy increased—Buffy would be looking after her sis on her own, then.

“We can do that,” he replied, holding out a hand to help her up. He was a little surprised when she took it, and her stomach growled loudly. “But maybe you should eat something first.”

“I don’t think there’s much in there,” she replied, sounding almost apologetic. “I just—haven’t felt like cooking lately.”

“Then we’ll go grab a bite somewhere else,” Spike offered. “My treat for standing you up for so long.”

Buffy gave him a long look. “Did it help?”

“You were right,” Spike admitted. “I needed to leave if I was going to get my head on straight.”

“That’s one thing that’s gone right, anyway,” Buffy muttered.

She was too thin, Spike thought. Like she hadn’t been eating well. And her eyes were those of the girl he’d known years ago, one that had been completely banished by the time she rescued him from the Initiative.

Or, not banished, but at least suppressed beneath the care of her friends and family. The last time he’d seen her so defeated had been after she’d sent Angel to hell and believed she’d been abandoned by her family.

He thought about what Joyce had said, about certainly hurting Buffy, and he knew she’d been all too right.

Spike wasn’t sure she’d accept, but he offered his arm anyway, and she tucked into his side like she’d never left.

“I got your postcards,” she said as they walked, heading for downtown and the nearest restaurants.

Spike hesitated, uncertain of how to reply. “Did you like them?” he finally asked.

“I did,” she admitted. “I—I took a poetry class last semester, before… Well, before I had to drop out, anyway.”

He thought this might be another one of those minefields. “Did you like the class?”

“I think I would have liked it more if I could have given it more attention.” She was quiet a moment, and the moonlight reflected off pale skin.

Spike didn’t think she’d been getting much sun, either, which was strange for her.

“Lot going on?” he finally ventured when she didn’t continue.

“You could say that.” Her tone was wry, and she didn’t offer any other information.

Spike decided to take a slightly different tack, beginning to tell her about the places he’d been, and the things he’d seen. Some of it he made up, because the hold of a cargo ship, or the interior of a cargo container, wasn’t all that interesting, but Buffy didn’t seem to notice or maybe she didn’t mind.

His stories carried them through dinner, at least, and then there was patrol, and they found a few vampires.

Spike was relieved to see a little of the old fire as she fought, and it was a real pleasure to be back-to-back again, to fight at her side. Their old dance might have been put on hold, but they picked up the threads without missing a beat.

When all the vampires were dust, Buffy turned to him with need in her eyes, and Spike pulled her close, her mouth on his just as hungry, just as demanding. Buffy shoved him up against the wall of a nearby mausoleum, and Spike grabbed her ass, feeling strong legs curve around his waist.

He turned them so that it was her back against the wall, put a hand behind her shoulders so she wouldn’t be hurt, and she gasped out, “No, Spike, I need to feel it.”

“I can do rough,” he growled, overcome in the moment with wanting her, and he shoved her up against the mausoleum harder, bit her neck with human teeth, shoved aside her jeans and underwear to thrust his fingers inside her wet heat with little finesse.

Buffy didn’t seem to care, gasping, her mouth opening in pleasure when he found her clit with his thumb, coming around his fingers before he’d even had a chance to unzip his own pants.

He rode out her orgasm with gentling hands, and then unzipped his jeans and pushed inside her with one hard thrust.

She clutched his shoulders as he moved inside her, and he knew that had she been anybody other than the Slayer, their coupling would have been termed brutal.

Buffy urged him to go faster, though, harder, and when Spike came, he thought it was about the best sex he’d ever had.

He pulled back just far enough to set them to rights, although he knew Buffy probably wanted a shower after that, and searched her face for any sign of discomfort.

Buffy rested her head on his shoulder, hiding her expression but moving closer, so Spike didn’t mind all that much. “Just like old times, huh?”

“Just like,” he replied, although he thought this had been a good deal rougher than most of their couplings in the past. He remembered the gentle lovemaking they’d indulged in before he left Sunnydale, and thought he wouldn’t mind a few more nights of tenderness.

But if rough and ready was what Buffy needed now, Spike would be that for her.


“You’re humming.”

The tone was accusatory coming from Willow, and maybe that made sense. Buffy hadn’t been happy lately; she wasn’t sure she could remember humming while washing the dishes in—a long time. She’d leave it at that.

“I slept through the night last night,” she admitted, and that was all she was prepared to admit to this time. She didn’t intend to hide the fact that Spike was back in town, or that they were sleeping together again. Or was it still?

Willow frowned. “You hadn’t been sleeping?”

“Nightmares,” Buffy replied shortly, her good mood vanishing like the soap bubbles in the sink. She dreamed of waking up in a coffin most nights. And those weren’t even the worst of her dreams, although they were the most vivid.

She hadn’t dreamed last night, for which she was grateful. Turnabout might be fair play, but she didn’t want to explain her nightmares to Spike.

Buffy had a lot more sympathy for him now than she had before she’d died. She could understand needing to leave Sunnydale to get a bit of distance.

“You could have told me,” Willow said reproachfully. “I could have done a spell—”

“No,” Buffy said, more sharply than she intended. Softening her tone, she repeated, “No, Willow. I don’t need to be fixed. I just need some time.”

Guilt and grief and stubbornness crossed Willow’s expression in quick succession. “Buffy—”

“No,” Buffy insisted.

She knew her friends were worried about her, that they wanted her to be better, but it wasn’t that simple.

“If you change your mind…” Willow trailed off.

I won’t, Buffy thought, but she smiled. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if I do.”

She could have said something else, of course. She could have told Willow she’d done enough already by dragging her out of heaven, and nearly getting Dawn killed. She could have pointed out that Willow’s use of magic was dangerous and irresponsible.

Saying any of those things would lead to a fight, however, and Buffy barely had the energy to get through her day. She didn’t want to stage an intervention for her best friend, too.

“Hey, Buffy!” Dawn called. “I’m back.”

Her sister sounded cheerful, maybe because she’d gotten to spend the night at Janice’s, doing normal teen things. Buffy should probably encourage Dawn to do more of that, if only so she didn’t have to cook.

“Did you have a good time?” she managed to ask.

Her respite with Spike the previous night had given her back a little bit of balance, enough to show some concern with her sister, and to shut down Willow’s offers of help.

Dawn grinned and showed off turquoise nail polish. “Janice did my nails, and I did hers, and we ate cookie dough and watched movies.”

“Sounds like fun,” Buffy replied, and she thought she might have even managed to sound cheerful.

Maybe it worked too well, because Dawn gave her a strange look. “You look different today.”

“Different how?” Buffy asked, grateful that her shirt collar hid the hickey Spike had given her and that it was fading fairly quickly.

She was resolutely not thinking about the fact that Spike had bitten her because she would have to ask him about the chip, and right now she’d like to live in the land of denial, at least for a few more hours.

Dawn shook her head. “I don’t know. Just different. Are you okay?”

“I slept last night,” Buffy said.

Dawn seemed to accept that explanation, although Willow was still giving her an odd look. “Okay.”

“I should probably run some errands,” Buffy announced. “Does anybody need anything?”

Both Dawn and Willow said no, so Buffy grabbed the car keys and left, figuring that she could at least get some groceries with her dwindling funds.

That was something productive, anyway.


Spike needed answers, and Buffy wasn’t going to provide them, so he’d need to find another source. His first thought was the Watcher, but when he stopped by the Magic Box, he found Anya behind the counter and no Giles in sight.

He knew Anya only slightly. He had mostly avoided Buffy’s friends after he was out of the Initiative, and before he left Sunnydale. And, while Anya would probably know what had happened, she was sure to report both his presence and his questions back to Harris, and Spike wanted to avoid the boy for the time being.

Willow would have been an obvious second choice, but he was none too sure of his welcome with her. Joyce, of course, was gone, which was a real shame. Spike had liked her, had liked her balls and her willingness to be honest.

He could ask Dawn, he supposed, but he knew Buffy’s tendency to protect her sister, and he hadn’t spent much time with Dawn either.

Spike was still contemplating his options that night when he stopped in at the grocery store for Wheetabix and cigarettes, and ran into Willow’s girl.

He spotted her first and was debating whether to duck out of sight or greet her when she saw him, her eyes widening.

There was a moment as they stared at each other where Spike was none too sure she’d say anything at all but would choose to ignore his presence.

And then, she straightened her shoulders and walked up to him. “Hi, Spike.”

They’d spent no more than a handful of hours together, but he nodded. “Tara.”

She smiled. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember my name.”

Spike shrugged, unable to admit that he remembered everything having to do with Buffy.

“Does Buffy know you’re back in town?” Tara asked.

“Saw her last night,” Spike admitted. “I was hoping to see her again tonight, but—I went by the Magic Box to have a word with her Watcher and didn’t see him.”

Tara’s expression became a little stiffer. “He went back to England a month or so ago.”

Spike sighed. “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to get my information elsewhere.”

“What sort of information?” she asked warily.

“Buffy told me a little bit of what went on, but not much,” Spike admitted. “I didn’t want to push, since she seemed—” He paused. “It didn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

Tara looked at him, her gaze measuring, and then she nodded, almost to herself. “All right. Do you like tea?”

And that was how he found himself in Tara’s tiny basement flat, sipping from a mug of tea and completely surprised that she was willing to serve as his source of info.

“Are you here to stay?” Tara asked before he could press her with questions. “Because if you’re only going to leave again, better to do it now.”

Spike was a little surprised at the blunt question, but he replied, “I can stay this time. I wouldn’t have left before, but I needed it.”

Tara sighed. “Well, I’d probably better start at the beginning.”

She kept the details sparse, but she explained how they had found out Dawn was actually a mystical key, about the Hellgod, and Buffy’s mom being sick, and then getting better, and then dying. Tara told him that Glory had discovered Dawn’s identity, kidnapped her, and opened a portal, and that Buffy had sacrificed herself to save everyone.

And then, her friends had resurrected her.

“Willow was so sure she was in a hell dimension,” Tara said, emotion choking her voice. “If we’d known…”

Spike was beginning to get the full picture. “She was a hero, and she died to save the world, and you lot thought she was in a hell dimension. Was there a body to bury?”

Tara grimaced. “Yes, and I know what you’re going to say, Spike, but Willow—I should have known better, though.”

He bit his tongue. He needed to know the rest of it. “What else?”

“She woke up in her coffin and dug herself out,” Tara said, and Spike could hear the real distress in her voice. “And she hasn’t really been the same. We weren’t sure why at first, but then Xander did a spell, and—suffice it to say, she admitted that she’d been in heaven. Willow and I broke up after that because she altered my memories to make me forget our fight, and I moved out.”

“And Red?” Spike asked.

Tara shook her head. “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken in a couple of weeks.”

Spike thought of the picture that had greeted him when he’d seen her on her back steps last night, and the desolation in her eyes. At least now he knew the cause, and he suspected he understood why she’d wanted it rough last night.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to give her what she needed, but he knew he had to try. Buffy had done no less for him.

“Ta,” Spike said. “You’ve been a help.”

Tara stood with him and put a hand on his arm. “Spike—I owe Buffy a debt. If there’s anything I can do for her or Dawn, please let me know.”

Spike nodded. “I will.”


Buffy had expected to see Spike as soon as the sun went down and was a little surprised when he didn’t show. For a moment, the fear that he’d left again gripped her, and then she shook it off.

She’d done without him before, and she could get by without him again. Spike had made her feel last night, and she’d slept without nightmares for the first time in weeks.

That was something to be grateful for anyway.

Still, she couldn’t help but go to his old crypt, where he’d set up shop last summer. There were no signs of life in the main area, but she dropped down to the lower level and pulled out her cell phone.

The screen glowed faintly, giving her just enough light to see an old duffel bag with clothes spilling out of it, and a blanket thrown over a bare mattress. It smelled a little musty down here, but mostly of damp earth and stone, and when she shivered, she sat down and drew the blanket around her shoulders.

From the blanket, she caught a hint of cigarette smoke and leather, and Buffy breathed in deeply. She wished she could curl up here, pull the blanket over her head, and just never come out. She didn’t think that Dawn or her friends fully realized what a chore it was just getting out of bed most mornings.

Buffy put one foot in front of the other, and she went through the motions, but she wasn’t sure that was really living.

“I was hoping to get it fixed up a little nicer before you came over,” Spike said, dropping down through the trapdoor.

She shrugged. “When you didn’t show up tonight, I thought—”

Buffy stopped. She didn’t want to sound needy, to chase him off because she was the stereotypical clingy girlfriend who got upset when he wasn’t where she expected him to be, even though they’d made no solid plans.

“Had to pick up a couple of things,” Spike replied. “I ran into Tara at the store, and she filled me in on the details. Went by your house, and you weren’t there so I thought I’d try here next.”

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to find the right words to explain what had happened. “Tara told you everything?”

“Broad strokes,” Spike admitted. “Probably still a little fuzzy on some of the details, but I got enough.” He sat down next to her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“I hated you a little bit for that,” Buffy admitted softly. “After mom died, and I was just trying to keep everything together, and keep Social Services from taking Dawn, I hated you.”

Spike didn’t say anything in his own defense, nor did he try to minimize her feelings or argue that she shouldn’t have felt that way.

“And then I’d get one of your postcards, and I’d think it was better than I ever got from any other guy that I dated, and maybe it would have been harder if you had stayed, and you weren’t getting better,” Buffy continued in a rush. “And I thought it was easier if you weren’t here, because I didn’t think I’d be able to take care of you, too, on top of everything else. And then I’d wish I had you back, but the version of you who was in Los Angeles.”

The silence that hung between them was heavy and pregnant with possibilities.

“I wished I could have been that person for you again,” Spike said quietly. “I’d like to stay and show you that I can.”

Buffy turned to look at him, and she could only just make out his pale hair and skin; everything else was shrouded in darkness. “What if you can’t?”

“Then maybe I can be the person you need right now,” Spike offered.

Buffy shook her head. “I can’t—”

“Let me,” Spike said insistently and kissed her, gently this time, without yesterday’s desperation.

He kissed her sweetly and undressed her slowly, and then he used his mouth on her until she was writhing, unable to do anything but feel.

There was only now, and the darkness, and Spike’s lips and tongue and hands, spreading her thighs, lapping at her clit, and she cried out as she came.

And then he began again, until her world was nothing but sensation, and every nerve ending felt as though it was on fire, and she cried out his name over and over.

When she slept, she dreamed of him. That was the gift he’d given her.


Spike was afraid to sleep with Buffy next to him. He still had the occasional nightmare, and he didn’t want to risk waking her. And if she had a nightmare, he didn’t want to risk not being awake so that he could potentially interrupt it.

He had no idea how to help her really, or what he could offer. The bits of William left in him could remember Sunday morning sermons on heaven and the hope of an afterlife, but it was something Spike had given up on when the demon took over.

Still, he could imagine what it might be like to go from where he was now back to the Initiative labs, with no hope of reversing that turn of events.

He could distract her, provide her moments of pleasure where she forgot everything but his name and yes and please and more. He could watch her back on patrol and perhaps stymie the death wish he’d seen in every Slayer’s eyes he’d met so far.

Maybe he’d keep to the shadows of her life, but that might be enough for the both of them. He wasn’t sure he dared ask for more, not when he’d left her to face all of that alone, not when he hadn’t been here to keep his promise.

She stirred, and he knew it was still before dawn when she said, “Spike? The chip is gone, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t told her yet, and he was hoping it would wait a little longer. “Yeah, it’s gone. Haven’t fed on a human in months, though, and the only one was a junkie attacking an old man. Spat the blood right out again, it tasted so bad.”

That was nothing but the truth, although Spike wasn’t sure she’d believe him.

“Why?” Buffy asked, her voice a little shaky.

“Because a bunch of humans beat me so badly I didn’t think I’d make it to shelter,” Spike admitted. “And because I couldn’t stand the thought of the Initiative still being in my head.”

Buffy let out a breath, and then she said, “Promise me you won’t do anything that would make me stake you. Please, Spike.”

“I promise that I will not feed on an innocent,” Spike said. “But I can’t promise not to do everything in my power to protect you.” He paused. “And your sister. I owe that to your mum.”

Buffy curled in closer to him, and Spike allowed himself to hope that maybe this time, it would work out. “I sleep better with you here.”

“I should bloody well hope so, Summers,” Spike replied quietly. “Big bad, here.”

When she chuckled, he felt as though he’d done something right. “The big bad who sends me postcards with poetry on them.”

“You said you liked the poetry,” he accused.

“I did,” she replied lightly. “But between Tennyson, Neruda, and Shakespeare, I’m not sure your big bad status is intact.”

Spike smiled, relieved her hear her banter. “Well, maybe if I’d quoted Elizabeth Barrett Browning…”

He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Quote me some poetry, Spike. It will help me sleep.”

“As you wish,” Spike murmured. It wasn’t too much to ask really, and he recited the first one that came to mind. “Light, so low upon the earth, you sent a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, all my wooing is done.”*

He thought she’d gone to sleep, but at the close of the poem, she murmured, “The day you left, after I found the book, I went home. Mom was there, and she was the one who realized you’d left a message for me. She read Tennyson until I went to sleep that night. That’s what I was thinking about when you showed up last night.”

Spike was undone. He thought of a thousand extravagant promises and could offer none. He had only just returned; they had spent more time apart than together. Their relationship could easily flame and burn out.

He wasn’t even able to offer her his own words, so he quoted the poem he left for her, speaking softly until she had fallen asleep, lying awake and wondering if this time it might be different.

*”Marriage Morning,” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Afraid to love and afraid to give
Just because of what it might cost us
But love can never, never live
Without the pain, the pain of loss

Life’s never fair and it can be rough
And it can turn and play cruel tricks on us
And just when we think we’ve had enough
There’s always one more river to cross

The temporary nature of any precious thing
That just makes it, just makes it more precious
But not easier, not easier to lose
To lose somebody as precious as you

We don’t have an answer. God only knows
Why we are made to weather these storms
But God knows I love you and you’re always been precious
Since the day, the day you were born

And it’s always the sweetest reddest roses
That kiss the sharpest thorns
And it’s always the deepest saddest joys
That prove to be the richest ones

The temporary nature of any precious thing
That just makes it, just makes it more precious
But not easier, not easier to lose
To lose somebody, somebody like you
To lose somebody as precious as you
To lose somebody as precious as you

~Lucinda Williams, “Temporary Nature (of Any Precious Thing)”


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