“You can walk in and out. I have built no doors.”

The flowers you don’t water, will never bloom.

And sometimes they leave not because they didn’t love enough. But maybe because love isn’t everything.

Clean your slate. Empty your cup. Let every moment. Fill you up.

He said he cannot read in between the lines. And I have poured all my heart there.

If I am to be only a passing season in your life, I hope I be spring.

Let me be like the leaves on the trees. Let me sway with the gentlest breeze.

If trees looked at fallen leaves and gave up, we would have no forests.

Not all love lives forever. But is it not love still? The maybe and the almost. And the love that never will.

I have loved you and missed you all for so long. That even this feeling feels like home.

You’re the kind of song, I want to hear on repeat. For a lifetime.

Like the endless stars in the skies. I love you, more than you know. And I miss you, more than I am allowed.

Maybe when I pour my words on paper. Maybe it’ll feel like how it might feel wrapping you in my arms.

When you love, I hope you don’t sail. I hope you drown.

Be your own flower. And bloom.

Just because you’re leaving, doesn’t mean I’m letting go.

I was supposed to be your sunshine. But it rained.

The coolest toys don’t have to be bought; they can be built.

There’s been so much wealth built up that we really can feel spending for some time.

If women built the bridges or were meant to build the bridges, then they would have done it.

Well-observed facts, though brought to light by passing theories, will never die; they are the material on which alone the house of science will at last be built.

There is a built-in sense of indebtedness in the consciousness of man, an awareness of owing gratitude, or being caled upon at certain moments to reciprocate

She built her castle at rock bottom.

I built a kingdom out of heartache and it is glorious.

You were built to love.