“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.”

Who you love and who loves you back determines so much in your life.

Our love story comes to me in waves, in movie stills and long summer afternoons spent under a sky of incessant blue. I still think of your eyes in flashes of color, your hands in a frenetic, feverish blur-your smile a mosaic of light and shadow. I still find myself lost in those moments of abstraction.

Isn’t it strange how much of our lives are interchangeable, how little is truly ours.

Whatever path you choose will take you to the same destination. The only thing that should guide you is your intuition.

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.

You may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn’t to save you but to show you how to save yourself.

The things that seem to matter less, are the ones we put on show.

You were none, and now you’re all; your worth will rise, the more I fall.

Love is a dormant volcano, lying in wait, biding its time.

I did not know that it was love until I knew.

Take me someplace where I can feel something-I want to give away my heart. Tell me his name so I can know love when it speaks to me. Give me someone I can write about.

I loved you once and now I must spend my whole life explaining why.

And the weather was so damn sick of being predictable; I heard it began snowing in the Sahara and I wanted to tell you that I’ve changed.

That night, we talked the way old friends do, with candor and ease.

If you have to be with someone at all, then be with someone who makes you feel like you are still in control.

We number our days and divide our seasons. We endlessly define what it is to be in love. When in truth, spring blurs into summer and always has, long before that line was ever drawn.