“But tomorrow, tomorrow could be different, and that is what keeps me going today.”

In the wrong hands, your past is a weapon.

Let her be herself. Or she will be somebody else’s.

It should be my right to mourn someone who has yet to leave this world but no longer wants to be part of mine.

Every time I see my name, I hear it in your voice.

Give me something I can write about.

Because sooner or later, all kinds of love – crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.

She would fondly call him her Frankenstein, this man who was a patchwork of all the things she had ever longed for.

I know how hard it is to have to love someone in secret.

That’s the thing about writers – on one hand everything is sacred to them, but, on the other, nothing really is.

To love is a dare, when hope and despair, are gates upon it hinges.

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.

Here and now I love you, for the moment you have my heart. But you are entitled to my future, you have no ownership of my past.

Here’s to those who wish us well, and the rest can go to hell!

We all need to follow our intuition, even if it takes us down the wrong path. Otherwise, you’ll always be second-guessing yourself.

Of all you’ve used against me, the worst has been my words.

The distance from you is measured in how far I’ve come.