Love is the intense feeling behind dying and killing for someone other than yourself.

I believe I’ve already met my soulmate and even if I’m not his, the memory makes me smile because it was truly beautiful.

May you suffer enough tragedy to gain a vast knowledge and understanding of life.

I don’t need karma. I don’t need revenge. I know when you’re forty you’ll wish you had. I’ll linger in the night and my touch will be too far from you. But I figure what’s sad isn’t that I’ll have moved on, it’s that I might be dead and you’ll never know if you even had a chance.

My muse is six feet, a hundred and ninety pounds and cradles my soul in his arms without knowing it.

There’s only one photo of us together and neither of us took it. I was so obsessed with the moment and entrapped in a world of him that nothing else mattered. I had no idea where my phone was, my mind or anything else. It was truly beautiful, sad and so beyond anything I’ve ever understood. I sit and smile and realize as I reminisce that it was beautiful to love someone else more than myself, but it was bliss to feel nothing for everything else.

It wasn’t good. It was good in the beginning and I held on to that.

I loved you with texture. You loved with a softness. Texture brought detail, softness brought folds. Folds brought creases and creases had secrets.

When is it too right but too wrong to be right?