“To me there was only ever you!”

What if love has always been the quench and the fire? or perhaps all we need to lose to find all we need to have?

Just as it demands blood, to meet bone, It’ll forever take something painful to understand pain.

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.

In any relationship in which two people become one, the end result is two half people.

Minds, however, are conquered not by arms, but by love and nobility.

There are no events but thoughts and the heart’s hard turning, the heart’s slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.

No work or love will flourish out of guilt, fear, or hollowness of heart, just as no valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living now.

Love is life. And if you miss love, you miss life.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

There is nothing wrong with letting people who love you help you.

Anything is a waste of time unless you are fucking well or creating well or getting well or looming toward a kind of phantom – love – happiness.