“For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.”

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.

When love finds you, it doesn’t come as crashing waves or thunderbolts. It appears as a song on the radio or a particular blue in the sky. It dawns on you slowly, like a warm winter sunrise-where the promise of summer shines out from within.

We will remain unwritten through history, no X will mark us on the map; but in books of prose and poetry, you loved me once, in a paragraph.