“I was there in your forgetting, until I was forgot.”

Your first love isn’t the first person you give your heart to- it’s the first one who breaks it.

Strange how it mattered so much, when now it matters so little.

Like time suspended, a wound unmended – you and I. We had no ending, no said goodbye; For all my life, I’ll wonder why.

For she is his poet, and he is her poetry.

She was the book that was not written. The sentence that was not scripted. She was the word you wished you could have said.

Knowing sleep will set it right – if you were not to wake.

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.

I just hope you realize how much you mean to me. I just wish I could remind you of how beautiful you are. I’m sorry I haven’t told you in so long. But please don’t think I have given up on you. I will never give up on you. My arms are wide open. There is always a place for you here.

Have you ever loved a rose, and bled against her thorns; and swear each night to let her go, then love her more by dawn.

In time she will learn, not to miss them.

When words run dry, he does not try, nor do I. We are on par. He just is, I just am and we just are.

It was the year you learned that shooting stars were either a blessing or a curse, depending on what you wanted to believe.

The briefest moment shared with you-the longest on my mind.

I don’t know how you are so familiar to me-or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before-in another time, a different place, some other existence.

I thought you were a keeper, I wish I could have kept you.

If you love my heart and mind, then you would love me, for all that I’m. But if you don’t love my every flaw, then you mustn’t love me- not at all.

It isn’t a matter of forgetting. What one has to learn is how to remember and yet be free of the past.

The danger lies in forgetting what we had. The flow between generations becomes a trickle, grandchildren tape-recording grandparents’ memories on special occasions perhaps-no casual storytelling jogged by daily life.

The physician thinks he is the master, forgetting that God is the Master. God laughs again when two brothers divide their land with a string, saying to each

Love It, is to increase by forgetting. It’s escape through a single being to mediocrity of all other. It’s one more for trying to be less.