“Please the night’s cold, not her name again!”

I swear I love her so much that somedays I can’t quite tell if I’m just a good liar.

You’re gone. And I think I’m only trying to mean a lot to myself too.

To heal is to be constantly reminded that once you learn to punch, you die with blood on your wrist.

There’s a constant battle of me and healing; all of which still sits burning and intricately perplexed in ink.

Either the jump or the drown, loving her has always readied me for the fire.

If ever the fall is the ground, someone tell her I’m this close to soil, and I can feel it!

These sharp edges you left behind, they cut so deep; and I guess maybe I am just not dying enough.

Breathe in the pain and bring out the wounds. It’s only a process and you’ll learn to survive the rest.

Give everything some time; pain hasn’t learn to walk yet.

Somedays depression is tender, as though hurting is just an art; and that maybe she didn’t break me more than enough!

Like a fractured bone in the ribs, the heart can be painfully heavy sometimes.

Perhaps I mistook the pain with work in progress.

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.

If you drive a car, I’ll tax the street; if you try to sit, I’ll tax your seat; if you get too cold, I’ll tax the heat; if you take a walk, I’ll tax your feet.

When Mrs. Jinnah feels cold, she will say so, and ask for a wrap herself.

Now is the time to stop drifting and wake up – to assess yourself, the people around you, and the direction in which you are headed in as cold and brutal a light as possible. Without fear.

After two world wars, the collapse of fascism, nazism, communism and colonialism and the end of the cold war, humanity has entered a new phase of its history.

He put his cold hands on either side of my face and fixed his golden eyes on mine. Would you please tell me what you’re thinking? Before I go mad?

She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself.

The ’60s are my favorite decade – with the Cold War, the women’s movement. And then there’s the music, the fashion, the clothes, the hair.

You act like a cold cold man, frozen beyond repair, hardly uttering any word, action laced demeanor. Yet everything about you, from your ebony eyes, to your dazzling smile, makes me feel warm inside.