“You were never my love story, you were always hers.”

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.

I am so sick of missing what was never mine.

Our souls are old friends.

Honey, I can smell the scent of another woman from 500 paces.

Married, but not to each other.

If you say, I love you, then you have already fallen in love with language, which is already a form of break up and infidelity.

Love, marriage, divorce, infidelity… life was the same here as anywhere else, wasn’t?

She suspected him of infidelity, with and without reason, morning, noon and night.

Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.

Malicious men may die, but malice never.

There is no rampart that will hold out against malice.