She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

She imagined herself as some sort of vessel to be filled up with love. But it wasn't like that. The love was within her all the time, and its only renewal came from giving it away.

His love for her was so deeply woven with resentment that he could not untangle the two.

You hold me at arm's length.