“I’ve run out of ways to tell you I hurt.”

What a magical spell those stars cast, making us believe we were written for them.

I have nothing to say and I can’t help but think that says a lot.

I prefer daydreams to those at night. It’s more fun to use my hands.

Sure, we could have kept going, but the chance of finding a gas station was zero.

You were all I ever wanted and nothing I could have.

Every day we don’t speak is one day closer to the day we will.

How beautiful she is to have tears as unapologetic as the rain.

I’m not looking at my phone. I’m looking for you.

How lonely it is with tears and heartbreak for company.

Whether this ends in a moment or forever, I will carry you always.

I will never let go of your letters; the last tangible pieces of you.

You chose me to forget her and I chose you to love.

Whisper it to me in poetry.

The devil on my shoulder has a lot to say about you.

I’ve run out of pain, which is to say, I’ve run out of words.

Let’s kiss under the moon and make the stars jealous.

I hope this pain never eases and these wounds never heal. That’s how you keep lingering in scars, underneath my skin.

The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.

Your spirit is not broken your heart is and you will heal.

We are broken. But never beyond repair.

You take what you know, and you put it through your own prism. If I play characters that break down or cry, it’s Gary Oldman crying; it’s not the character crying.

In some sad truth, I’ll always want more of you.

I remember when I was the only sin you liked to kiss.

Brown daughters are just fragile glass houses always on the verge of shattering.