“I am sad about the things I did to make you want me.”

The road’s been long but I made it to you.

You were never my love story, you were always hers.

Your hands don’t feel like home anymore and it’s breaking my heart.

We are all just wanting bones and stardust skin trying to find our way home.

We will always be an open ending, a beautiful perhaps.

She built her castle at rock bottom.

I am terrified that I am destined for almost.

I am messy when I am in pain.

I dream of all the places we never made it to.

There is something extraordinary in this space between our skin.

In another life, you kept your word, and forever’s still ours for the taking.

I am not proud of the things I did when I was hurting.

How can I be homesick for a life I haven’t lived?

You were a beautiful chapter, but not my last.

It was an adventure, wasn’t it? You and I.

Mortgages, marriage, and kids are not life’s only meaningful milestones.

Her sadness clung to her like a cloak in the whitest of winters.

I may soak up your sadness and sorrows but how I live for your joys.

Resolve to be thyself: and know that he who finds himself, loses his misery.

There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because we have found a snug sofa at last.

Heaven have mercy on us all – Presbyterians and Pagans alike – for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.

Be of good cheer, for sadness cannot heal the national wounds.

There is an energy which springs from sickness and debility: it has a more powerful effect than the real, but, sadly, expires in an even greater infirmity.

Black is not sad. Black is poetic.