“Everything I know of love is told in the bruises we left on each other.”

Maybe letting go isn’t all that different to loving you.

I swear my bones can feel it whenever you speak my name.

What a gentle curse: to still want you after all we’ve been.

She spoke with so much hope, the future dancing on her lips like a flame.

Her smile is an open flame and I have a paper heart.

It was always you who felt like water when my whole body was a flame.

Just because the pain is comfortable doesn’t mean you have to wear it.

Some days survival is all the living I can do.

There’s a weight to it, this missing you.

Her heart is heavy and ruined with hope.

Maybe I hold onto pain because I don’t know who I am without it.

I cannot lose you quietly. It will take blood and bone to pull you from my chest.

Even heartbreak can find a way to feel like home.

We built futures I’ll never get to visit. But I still have to watch them crumble.

I surround myself with trees in the hope I might become a  growing thing, too.

To hurt is simply an act of remembering. Of holding my skin to the edge in the hope I might feel anything at all.

If only the journey back could bring me to you.

All I have are the memories and all they do is haunt me.

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.