“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.”

When was the last time you felt like someone knew you and not the person you’ve been pretending to be. When was the last time you felt like yourself.

Now that you have it all, do you ever wish you could go back to when you had it simple?

The memory of you is fading, a little at a time, and I can feel myself forgetting.

I wish I could put a pen in your hand and gently remind you how the world has given you poetry and now you must give it back.

I know you are scared. Who could blame you? Love is a hurricane wrapped inside a chrysalis. And you are a girl walking into the storm.

Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.

It was beautifully worded and painfully read; the things that were written, were those never said.

There is one who you belong to, whose love- there is no song for.

I used to think I couldn’t go a day without your smile. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back.

The feeling is like the ocean. Sometimes calm and still; other times, it’s a hurricane.

Summer was felt a little more; in autumn I began to fall. When winter came with all its white, you were mine to kiss goodnight.

I think the mysterious pull that draws you to another person is identical to the one that moves our eyes upward to the stars.

I hope someday you will find me and remember what I once meant to you.

It’s so dark right now, I can’t see any light around me. That’s because the light is coming from you. You can’t see it but everyone else can.

If any person claims to have loved twice in all their life – they have not loved at all.

I know there is a terrible distance between us. But our bodies are made of stardust, and we are hurtling through space and time, toward the most beautiful collision.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

I like vocal word stuff. But I don’t always write with an instrument, I usually write a capella. It’s more like drawing in the air with your fingers. It’s closest to the choreography of a bee. You’re freer.

I taught my first class at a local elementary school the year my first book, ‘Flying Fingers,’ debuted.

A good book for an illiterate is a golden ring for a fingerless hand!

Not responding is a response–we are equally responsible for what we don’t do. In the case of animal slaughter, to throw your hands in the air is to wrap your fingers around a knife handle.

She extended a hand that I didn’t know how to take, so I broke its fingers with my silence.

I can’t take it all in or else I’ll grow cold when the heat already escapes my fingers and toes.

I would hold the rosy, slender fingers of the dawn for you.