I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities — as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

The only thing that prevents us from being happy is thinking.

Because even if you spend your life chasing the immaterial, listening to the most exquisite classical music and getting drunk off of stunning vistas of mountains and waterfalls, all of it isn't worth a dime if you aren’t sharing it with someone. Everything amounts to that. True, we must experience most things in solitude to grow, create, destroy and grow again, but our pleasure and joy reaches a threshold in isolation. It is the worst thing to become an island. One must become the whole world.

I haven’t written you a poem in years it seems.How can it be my faultwhen the words to describe you have not yet been created?When the alphabet lacks the very letters?How can it be my fault when your loveliness only growsby the time I reach for pen and paper?Tell me how I am at faultwhen I am only a beginner in poemsand you are exquisite poetry?To write you in words is to put a veil upon you.Why must I writewhen I can kiss you instead?

Ask of your eyes to seeonly to seek love.Ask of your mouth to speakonly to utter words of love.Ask of your hands to feelif only to touch the lover.

Wonderment shared is doubled.Love shared is infinite.

Extremities are flawed. Moderation is ideal, save for one occasion.So damn these eyes that weep too much.This mind that thinks too much. But never this heart that loves too much.

My hours are filled with fantasy and indifference. In day and night dreams, I think of my heaven with you. All the time in between, I carelessly spend in hell without you.

She placed her hand on her chest and thought, 'So this is what the poets write about'.