“I guess we all understand the love language fine; but maybe truth is we’re just too fluent in goodbyes.”

When I say I love you, I mean something raw something below the surface of all waters; something almost too naked and true!

Like her name, some people are best left scrouged on the skin.

I’ve been quiet most of today. By which I mean I can see myself in the mirror; And believe me it is something hard to look at these days.

I guess you’re the bee and the stings all at once; By which I mean you’re the reason I wrap these tired bones around every aching thing.

In the end the salt calls the ocean home; and I guess this is why drowning has always been a part of loving you.

I guess this has been my confusion; where I went wrong. Thinking that love could possibly come as a thing without the burns.

To me there was only ever you!

I knew you would leave someday; And from there a poet will be born from the ashes.

Love is a job doer and a man slayer. Both equally efficient, until the taste of it is most felt on the cold side of the ribs.

There’s not much I know about forgetting. By which I mean I can hear her name from a distance; and it still breathes cold in my chest.

Respect pain. Every heartfelt word is first born from sadness.

I’m a drunk poet; and I guess maybe I sipped too much of what I couldn’t buy of her.

I held my breath underwater and felt surrender in my lungs; maybe this too counts as love.

And when the cold comes, I swear I can feel her in my bones.

Today I can see the cracks on the wall they’re visible; but I can tell they are finding their way to soil, And so am I.

Maybe water is not entirely lost when soaked into sand. Maybe it finds a better resting place to call home; and I hope she did too.

And know that I am with you always; yes, to the end of time.

Joy and sorrow, beauty and deformity, equally pass away.

Truth is often eclipsed but never extinguished.

Sometimes you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel until you’ve learned how to live in the dark.

There are some people who still don’t understand. But I know by the end of my fulfillment they will.

Life is like an endless book. Each day is a new page and only death can bring the end to this little book of yours.

The lesser we have to care about whether someone is a narcissist or not, the better we will end up improving our private lives.

Darling, our story was a beautifully tragic thing. Magical as it happened unbearable when it ended.