48 Quotes About Poetic-fiction

I wanted so badly to tell him, but something about that entire night seemed so beautiful, so bizarre, that I didn't trust it with my secrets.

He is spent. His mind is mercury again, its brief surge of humanity melting into an oily residue on its surface, and he no longer understands the feelings he felt in that strange moment on the overpass.But he did feel them. They did happen. They rest on the murky seabed of his mind, buried under sand and silt and miles of grey waves. Patient seeds waiting for light.

I wipe at her cheeks with the cuff of my green sweater because it’s the softest thing I can think of. It catches her tears without absorbing them, and they hang between the fibers like stars.

The months fall to shards at my feet.

It radiates out from him like a cloud of ghosts, countless hands clutching at the air, reaching out for…something.

She strokes my cheeks with the side of her hand – a repetitive, wispy motion. Like little ghost kisses.

She was supposed to build sand castles on the beach and put her toes in the ocean,” Madame says.

He rubbed my arm, whispering words that sounded like moth bodies flying into glass windows.

I feel unburdened, and after a while I start to imagine that the divan is a boat moving over the ocean. Sunken cities play music beneath the waves. The ghosts are stirring.