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.

Every book has to wait for the right time to be read and understood.

For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something — distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world — but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

She might not have read many books. But when she reads a book, she swallows the very words. If you open the books on her shelves, you will find that the front and back covers encase white pages.

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

Because at nightwhen others are sleeping, I drown myself in poetry.

Oh, how scary and wonderful it is that words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.