And if you’ve forgotten, let me remind you. How love never really ends. How your heart breaks the same way it beats, again and again, and again.
LANG LEAVWe may be just two different clocks, that do not tock in unison.
More Lang Leav Quotes
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We will remain unwritten through history, no X will mark us on the map; but in books of prose and poetry, you loved me once, in a paragraph.
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I’m a stranger in my own life.
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I thought you were a keeper, I wish I could have kept you.
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Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.
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Sometimes the loneliest place to be is in love.
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We spoke once about lovers who kept finding each other, no matter how many times the world came between them. And I think I had to break your heart, and you had to break mine. How else could we know the worth of what we were given?
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You are a writer bleeding words onto a page. And the ones who hate you will trample on that page. And the ones who love you will cut you, to keep you bleeding.
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One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else.
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Here’s to those who wish us well, and the rest can go to hell!
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Hands are no longer hands. They are caresses. Mouths are no longer mouths. They are kisses. My name is no longer a name, it is a call. And love is no longer love – love is you.
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I want you to remember my lips beneath your fingers and how you told me things you never told another soul. I want you to know that I have kept sacred, everything you had entrusted in me and I always will.
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Life has a way of working itself out. You’ll see.
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It was beautifully worded and painfully read; the things that were written, were those never said.
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I do know there are all kinds of barriers to love. I do believe the world needs less of them.
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You won’t hear from me again after today, and I don’t want you to worry. I’ll be okay. Because I have to be.
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In many ways, a book is, in itself, a tiny universe. Each page is like a newly formed galaxy, fashioned from a single, pulsing thought. A book travels for days, for years, sometimes for centuries to meet you at an exact point in time.
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The memory of you is fading, a little at a time, and I can feel myself forgetting.
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I have given so much to things that weren’t worth my time. When all along, it’s the people I love that I should have carried.
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I was there in your forgetting, until I was forgot.
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You only get one chance to fall in love with your heart still whole.
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You may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn’t to save you but to show you how to save yourself.
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He gave her such gifts – not the kind that were put in boxes, but the sort that filled her with imagination, breathing indescribable happiness into her life.
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What I feel for you is at once the expression of language and the absence of it.
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Of all you’ve used against me, the worst has been my words.
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The time may not be prime for us, though you are a special person. We may be just two different clocks, that do not tock, in unison.
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That’s the thing about writers – on one hand everything is sacred to them, but, on the other, nothing really is.
LANG LEAV