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

One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else.

I love you, I do – you have my word. You have all my words.

You know, missing someone can sometimes be the best thing for a writer.

Do you remember the song that was playing the night we met? No, but I remember every song I have heard since you left.

Before I fell in live with words, with setting skies and singing birds – it was you I fell in love with first.

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 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.