“Her sadness clung to her like a cloak in the whitest of winters.”

I know that in every alternate universe, you and I are together, our souls couldn’t handle anything else.

And happiness with you felt like twirling in the midst of a thousand butterflies.

The greatest love story of your life will be the one between you and your growth.

We danced through the graveyard and between the ruins for the dead and broken sang to our souls.

I’ll wish for your love even after the stars fall out of the sky.

Returning to you was wholly wrong like an angel seeking comfort in the arms of everlasting darkness.

I wanted our flower to bloom, even through the lightening storm.

Kissing you felt like poetry.

Stars sought sanctuary in the darkness between us.

Secrets secrets secrets so many but none with you.

I wish to pass like time to fall away like yesterdays.

I loose a piece of my heart when we’re apart.

It felt as if the sky would collapse into itself when she was near, a beautifully destructive chaotic thing.

My little sunflower god, even the stars worshiped you.

I hope, The storms you encounter are ones only of soft thunder and light rain.

I loved poetry the moment it turned my pain into something beautiful.

The weariest night, the longest day, sooner or later must perforce come to an end.

The trouble with boxing is that too often it ends in sadness.

I think sadness prevails in Syria now. We don’t feel anything else but sadness because we have this killing every day, whether with chemical or any other kind.

There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, ‘There now, hang on, you’ll get over it.’ Sadness is more or less like a head cold- with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.

The blues he sends to meet me, won’t defeat me. It won’t be long til happiness steps up to greet me.

It was so gorgeous it almost felt like sadness.

When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.

If drinking don’t kill me, her memory will.