“Like time suspended, a wound unmended – you and I. We had no ending, no said goodbye; For all my life, I’ll wonder why.”

It is only the year that is ending. So why does it feel like the world is?

He and I 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.

In many ways, a book is, in itself, a tiny universe. Each page is like a newly formed galaxy, fashioned from a single, pulsing thought. A book travels for days, for years, sometimes for centuries to meet you at an exact point in time.

Now I know being close to you was never about the proximity.

But how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

If you love me for what you see, only your eyes would be in love with me.

But if you don’t love my every flaw, then you mustn’t love me- not at all.

If they were meant to be in your life, nothing cover ever make them leave. If they weren’t, nothing in the world could make them stay.

There are things we sacrifice for love, that we willingly give. But no one who loves you will ever ask you to give up more than you are willing.

I build my walls from the mess they leave.

Where the strangers we meet, take us down one way streets, and forgetting is something we’re taught.

You are a writer bleeding words onto a page. And the ones who hate you will trample on that page. And the ones who love you will cut you, to keep you bleeding.

I think there is a sense of ownership in knowing, isn’t there? You let people in, and they claim parts of you-they fly their flag over uncharted territory and from then onward-you cease to belong wholly to yourself.

There is a savagery to what you feel. It eats you up inside. But you will get through it; you don’t need his mouth to placate you. You don’t need his hands to untangle the butterfly knot in your heart. Your love is a fire that will burn itself out. Let it ravage you.

You must emerge from adversity, scathed but victorious to tell your story and, in turn, light the way for others.

When in truth, it is the transparency that kills you. The pain of seeing through to something you can never quite touch.

You were a beautiful chapter, but not my last.

Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

In my family, Father is the world champion at ending conversations.

The spearhead of progress. If they are fundamentally wrong, free discussion will in time put an end to them.

Death is a sleep that ends our dreaming. Oh, that we may be allowed to wake before death wakes us.

I hope my journey here ends with us.

Am I such a bad person for dreaming of a world that ends when I do? I don’t mean the world ending with respect to me, but every set of eyes closing with mine.