“I don’t mind wasting my hours with you.”

Strip me to my bare core.

Growth has taught me to apologize when i am to blame, but not to say sorry when i shouldn’t feel ashamed.

“I just like being with you.” And just like that my heart collapsed under the weight of his eyes on me.

Jewellry doesn’t excite me, no more than a tightly wrapped gift, but when you show up at my door, small smile and eager to kiss, i’m more excited than i could ever believe.

Make love to this body like you always have.

Its as simple as that. A slow burning flame flickering upon these freckled fingers.

She won’t bend and break as you’d expect her to, she’s a solid form of bravery and fearlessness and that can’t be undone.

Kiss on forehead, nose and cheek. Repeat.

This petite heart found strength in your kind eyes.

You’re a divine human being. A tongue swift as a sword and hands that can hold every drop.

You’re a work of art only just framed by my eager fingertips.

I’m still trying to fix up the wreckage you left behind, the chaotic strings of misery you let fall to the floor. Each piece delicately piercing my skin, the red glow a contrast to my continual white limbs.

Dreams of our last night together left a tingling feeling like a splinter in my skin. I couldn’t grasp it, but the glorious pain sat brewing into my bones.

Don’t let them take any more of your heart that you’ve already given them. Hold onto what you have left and build it again.

Rainbow sugar, candied eyes. You have the potential to crack me open and let my feelings spill right onto the floor.

Your euphoric eyes hold me hostage.

A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.

When an American family becomes separated from its toothbrushes and combs and pajamas for a few hours it considers that it has had quite an adventure.

I sleep seven hours. If I go to bed at two, I wake up at nine. If I go to bed at midnight, I wake up at seven. I don’t wake up before – the house can fall apart, but I sleep for seven hours.

Travel with the same woman in a railway car for twelve hours, and you will have written her down in your own mind in quite other language than that of love.

Good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read.

A feeling of having been injured, on which his mind can brood from hour to hour, allowing him to plead his own cause in his own court, within his own heart, and always to plead it successfully.

I wouldn’t do the ‘Magic Hour’ again, but I would do TV again. The ‘Magic Hour’ is not me.

I asked the waiter, ‘Is this milk fresh?’ He said, ‘Lady, three hours ago it was grass.’