“We parted sadly, like children in the street on a pleasant june afternoon.”

You are a question that I’ll never know the answer to.

We are gardens. We flourish and grow. Despite the rain, despite the snow.

I’ve learned the difference between being a good person and being a popular.

The hardest goodbyes are the ones you never got to say.

My dearest contradiction. You are soft and obliterating, like the moon’s glare upon a sinner.

I’d prefer to wield a rose than to wield the gun.

I ache and long and feel in a language older than ours; one without words or phrases, consisting only of melancholy.

Every word I write is crude and weak when it comes to conveying you how much I appreciate you.

We are all marks of condensation on polished glass; steadily fading away.

The only person you’ll spend your entire life with is yourself. You should be your first focus.

Branches bow, longing to reach the crisp, punctured leaves, their old shedded skin.

People are good. No matter what. Beneath the rage and fear lies a wounded heart. We must do what we can do to heal it.

Make the choice; to be comfortable or to be alive.

The flowers burn the grass, a thousand splendid suns; and life returns to everything as hope refills my lungs.

You’re an ocean that I can’t navigate. If storms wrack your surface, I dread to think what horrors lie in your depths.

The deepest relationships belong to the friends who were one lovers, and the lovers who were once friends.

It will never be like the way it always was.

I have tried so hard, to even bleed you out of me, and yet somehow you stand still.

I’m terrified that one day I’ll see you again and you’ll be in the arms of someone else.

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

Tears like flame slide down my skin, they burn like the memory of you.

Sometimes your heart was meant to break, so these broken pieces of yours can bloom in a garden of self-love.

Broken wings may be grounded now, but they will taste freedom again.

I wonder what you do with the memories of me.