It's been nearly 300 years since she started writing the poem about him, though she'd be the first to tell you it was much easier in the beginning. Back then she was just discovering what it meant to love him, and he was still willing to sit through movies he secretly couldn't stand. After the first fifty years, though, the writing was less about how his dirty text messages made her forget what she was shopping for and more about the way she wished he'd clean the terrarium on his own. When he died, it just got harder. She spent decades trying to describe the color she imagined his skin became once it began to separate from his other assorted tissues; then it was nearly a century before she found a metaphor for how his bones had melded into the dirt. Eventually she realized this was not turning out to be the poem she had expected it to be. She took some years off to plant a garden in his honor; when she was finished the city was so pleased they decided to throw a parade. All of this, it turns out, was much better than the poem she has yet to finish. He would have told her this, but it would have taken much more living to figure out how.