“And I don’t know if it’s his lips or his fingers that make thousands of roses bloom on my skin.”

Don’t you see? That I kiss you a little harder. That I hug you a little harder. I want you to heal me.

Waiting a lifetime to touch your lips again wouldn’t be too long.

Touch me. Make my body bloom. A million cherry blossoms.

Because, in the end, it was just promises.

And how can you be so bad for me when I feel like I’m flying?

Because I always ruin everything. Maybe it’s better if I let you go.

If you try every day, then, you’re much stronger than you think.

And she started flying, just like the beautiful butterfly she is.

Maybe one day you’ll see, you’ll see what I saw.

She is like a beautiful night. Full of stars and darkness.

I could have given your heart a thousand roses. But you didn’t want one.

She believes in a wonderful world where unicorns exist. That’s why she believed in you.

We love each other because we can’t do otherwise.

And in my stories, the ones I tell myself at night before I sleep. You are there, again and forever.

And I realized It was when you loved me that my heart broke the most.

And you were probably just one of my stories, still made up in my mind. Again.

Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

On the other hand, you have different fingers.

Want girls to let you put your fingers in certain places? Get a manicure.

As individual fingers we can easily be broken, but all together we make a mighty fist.

No better feeling than holding that little finger and asking her about her day.

Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse.

My choices are like my fingerprints, they make me unique.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.