“I want you to remember my lips beneath your fingers and how you told me things you never told another soul. I want you to know that I have kept sacred, everything you had entrusted in me and I always will.”

I don’t think about myself as much as I used to. I guess that’s a good thing. I only think about the things that are missing from me.

Fear isn’t a reason when it comes to love–it’s an excuse. Anyone who has ever been in love will tell you that.

I was loved in my dreams last night. It echoed through me like thunder-I felt it through and through.

Some days I feel like my soul is being pulled in one direction and my heart in another.

I want you to be happy. I want someone else to know the warmth of your smile, to feel the way I did when I was in your presence.

The words I heard from you today, are said when there’s nothing left to say. What I would give to make you stay, I would give it all away.

You can’t borrow from the future, to make up for the past.

Because someday, in one way or another, you will be taken from me or I you.

People who are prone to sadness are more likely to pick up a pen.

The greatest heartache comes from loving another soul, they said, beyond reason, beyond doubt, with no hope of salvation.

How much love is a person capable of giving? I thought I knew the answer until I met you.

And if you’ve forgotten, let me remind you. How love never really ends. How your heart breaks the same way it beats, again and again, and again.

It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.

I know you were born with your heart already broken. But the world began in pieces and somehow made itself whole.

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 only ones they can turn against you are those who were never with you.

I can’t take it all in or else I’ll grow cold when the heat already escapes my fingers and toes.

I would hold the rosy, slender fingers of the dawn for you.

I like to trace the ghosts of your fingers on the back of my hand. They read- I don’t know how to hold without you.

Write, write, write-till your fingers break.

Music is for people. The word ‘pop’ is simply short for popular. It means that people like it. I’m just a normal jerk who happens to make music. As long as my brain and fingers work, I’m cool.

I’ve learned, That when your newly born grandchild holds your little finger in his little fist, that you’re hooked for life.

She might have liked to try to strangle him with those slender fingers of hers, but she wanted to make a job of it and this great patience with which she waited for her claws to grow was in itself a form of enjoyment.

I was so used to doing old blues licks with the first three fingers. When I started using my pinky and finding more spread things, that’s when I started getting my own style.