“She tasted like wildflowers; crushed, wet wild flowers carried in sticky palms through farmers’ fields, just before dawn.”

We were electric together, you and me; we turned hurting each other into a goddamned symphony.

You can fan the flames with hate or stroke the fire with love, either way, it’s going to burn.

I drink to the ones who can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul again. But in all that is right or wrong and pure, there is you, and your stunning ability to blur the lines and just be.

I breathe him in so deep that when he is gone I exhale and taste him again.

I will not force a pretty smile upon my face to please eyes that no longer see me.

Moon child with your galaxy heart, cool your heels and stay awhile.

He was exactly like hitting a red light during a killer streak of green.

Be bold, child. You are rare and you are brazen light.

She is love, and a little fucking unstoppable.

And now I wander. Forever searching for the pieces of me I should have never given away.

Every now and then I roam the catacombs in my head and attempt to resurrect you, and make you shiny again.

Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.

I promised to touch your soul. I never said it would be painless.

I am world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.

Melancholy- My longest of lost lovers has returned to dance with me Again I loved him; intensely.

As one sits here in summertime and listens to the cuckoo and all the other bird songs, the crackling and buzzing of insects, as one gazes at the shining colors of flowers, doth one become dumbstruck before the Kingdom of the Creator.

I knew I held strength when in the darkest, coldest corner of my mind I managed to make flowers grow.

No dainty flower or herbs that grows on ground, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweet, but there it might be found To bud out fair, and throw her sweet smells all around.

I wanted to know the name of every stone and flower and insect and bird and beast. I wanted to know where it got its color, where it got its life – but there was no one to tell me.

Experiments upon vegetation give reason to believe that light combines with certain parts of vegetables, and that the green of their leaves, and the various colors of flowers, is chiefly owing to this combination.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o’ the morn.

So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flower.

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.