“About pain; maybe it will hit you when you think about what will happen if you just stay a little longer.”

Maybe he is a one kind of a poem in a form of a body.

You’ve had love all along.

My longing is to have you back. Your body, your soul all at once.

I want love to be my sanctuary. The place I dwell when I am weak.

With the right person, everything will always be okay. Even if it is difficult, you never have a question about it. You just patiently there and wait, because you know the answer for the best.

Let this now be the time, to give thanks even to a small thing that keeps you alive.

When I look at you, I am home.

Treat the ones you love most the very best.

I hope you find someone who makes you feel so at home, even with just their voice.

What I admire about love is that, even in its weakness, it still wishes you well.

Love is many things. But your love is my favorite.

I believe that if you tell me I am enough, I am enough.

Love came to me as you.

I think life would mean nullity if grace does not pick my hand again to reach you.

Maybe you have to be smaller if you want to see bigger things. To see how the sky looked prettier from the ground.

You can’t forget the person who prayed for you because when you were happy yesterday, maybe their prayers were a part of it too.

It is awareness of both our shared pain and our longing for happiness that links us to other people and helps us to turn toward them with compassion.

Let the blood and the bruises define your legacy.

If we turn away from our own pain, we may find ourselves projecting this aversion onto others, seeing them as somehow inadequate for being in a troubled situation.

And so I wait. I wait for time to heal the pain and raise me to me feet once again – so that I can start a new path, my own path, the one that will make me whole again.

Time doesn’t heal emotional pain, you need to learn how to let go.

Longing is the agony of the nearness of the distant.

Unrest and pain and sorrow are the shadows of life.

It is foolish to tear one’s hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness.