“There were things that he wanted to write on paper, about everything he couldn’t tell her.”

Her heart is like poetry a modern poetry only understood by some and accepted by few.

She is still healing in a quiet way.

In his eyes she was both poetry and prose.

Her eyes made me feel better.

I’m a poet, a sad poet, who wrote about her, always and forever.

The quiet hearts speaks the loudest prayer, hoping someone would hear.

Some of the magical moments in our life are from the smallest moments.

Sometimes, we express our words through writing, even though it needs to be spoken.

Losing her was plenty.

No matter what I do I’m still not the best writer for you.

I still see you in my dreams, teasing my feelings and damaging my heart.

You’re rare, which some people don’t care, but I do.

The words that appeared from my Ink where that could describe my love for you.

As my heart began to melt this is what your Emerald eyes do to me.

This time I’ll be better for myself, at least for myself.

I love you but your eyes didn’t see my worth

Who am I to write about love when I don’t know the very definition of it, It seems, love itself does not favor me.

In each passing day, I hope I love you less but somehow this love stays and my heart is yours nonetheless.

There are some people you’ve just got to love from a distance.

We say things to ourselves that we would never say to people we love

Too often we love people who don’t love us, but we fail to return the love of others who do.

If I can have what I want then I’d have the stars the moon, the skies and a love where it shines through your eyes.

Never fight with a pig. You will get dirty, and the pig will love it.”

Light can always be found in love.