“He left love letters at my door, and a chalk outline on the highway.”

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.

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

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.

If I had known our last kiss was to be our last kiss, I would have kissed you as if it was our first.

I think you were my taste of heaven after a lifetime of eating hell.

Dear Society’ really is my letter to society where I express the anguish I’ve been caused from such an image-based industry and culture we live in.

More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

If the truth were to be known, everyone would be wearing a scarlet letter of one form or another.

When you do not accept the insult some one casts on you, it goes back to the person who indulged in it first; a registered letter that is not accepted returns to the sender.

Now, look, baby, ‘Union’ is spelled with 5 letters. It is not a four-letter word.

My mother could make anybody feel guilty – she used to get letters of apology from people she didn’t even know.

If I had more time I would write a shorter letter.

No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.