“I learned that writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don’t get the thing you want the most.”

When words run dry, he does not try, nor do I. We are on par. He just is, I just am and we just are.

It was the year you learned that shooting stars were either a blessing or a curse, depending on what you wanted to believe.

The briefest moment shared with you-the longest on my mind.

I don’t know how you are so familiar to me-or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before-in another time, a different place, some other existence.

I thought you were a keeper, I wish I could have kept you.

If you love my heart and mind, then you would love me, for all that I’m. But if you don’t love my every flaw, then you mustn’t love me- not at all.

I don’t think all writers are sad, she said. I think it’s the other way around- all sad people write.

When someone stirs a world of emotion in you and it’s so intense you can barely stand to be with him.

But it was now time for her to go away-to find someone who could show her what happiness was.

We had no ending, no said goodbye. For all my life, I’ll wonder why.

I’m a stranger in my own life.

When two souls fall in love, there is nothing else but the yearning to be close to the other. The presence that is felt through a hand held, a voice heard, or a smile seen.

Souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to know one other.

It was words that I fell for. In the end, it was words that broke my heart.

A Betrayal I cannot undo what I have done; I can’t un-sing a song that’s sung. And the saddest thing about my regret- I can’t forgive me, and you can’t forget.

It was a kind love, a selfless love. I was a dreamer, and you were a traveler. We met at the crossroads. I saw love in your smile, and I recognized it for the first time in my life. But you had a plane to catch, and I was already home.

The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly: no poem ever attains such carat purity.

It is a principle of human nature to hate those whom we have injured.

None grieve so ostentatiously as those who rejoice most in heart. [Lat., Nulla jactantius moerent quam qui maxime laetantur.]

It is a characteristic of the human mind to hate the man one has injured.

Rulers always hate and suspect the next in succession. [Lat., Suspectum semper invisumque dominantibus qui proximus destinaretur.]

Victor and vanquished never unite in substantial agreement.

None make a greater show of sorrow than those who are most delighted.

He, that noble prize possessing He that boasts a friend that’s true, He whom woman’s love is blessing, Let him join the chorus too!