“I am sad about the things I did to make you want me.”

She built her castle at rock bottom.

I am terrified that I am destined for almost.

I am messy when I am in pain.

I dream of all the places we never made it to.

There is something extraordinary in this space between our skin.

In another life, you kept your word, and forever’s still ours for the taking.

I am not proud of the things I did when I was hurting.

How can I be homesick for a life I haven’t lived?

You were a beautiful chapter, but not my last.

It was an adventure, wasn’t it? You and I.

Mortgages, marriage, and kids are not life’s only meaningful milestones.

She had a smile that took me to church every damn night.

How sad it is that you have become something I need to recover from.

Too many broken forevers and tired bones.

She gave me a feeling I knew I would spend the rest of my life chasing.

Some of my best and most glorious love stories are friendships.

There is an energy which springs from sickness and debility: it has a more powerful effect than the real, but, sadly, expires in an even greater infirmity.

Black is not sad. Black is poetic.

If only the journey back could bring me to you.

Night is a song, moon and sad people can sing along.

Even in sadness you are a symptom of love.

I love you the way rain falls on a sunny day- a kind of marvelous sadness.

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

Black is not sad. Bright colours are what depress me. They’re so empty. Black is poetic. How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not.