There is one who you belong to, whose love- there is no song for.
LANG LEAVYou 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.
More Lang Leav Quotes
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Strange how it mattered so much, when now it matters so little.
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I loved you once and now I must spend my whole life explaining why.
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you cannot control the depth of a wound another inflicts upon you.
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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.
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Where are you?” She asked. “I have been searching all my life.” “Stop looking for me,” Love replied, “and I will find you.
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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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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.
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I loved you more than love was allowed.
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The distance from you is measured in how far I’ve come.
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Here’s to those who wish us well, and the rest can go to hell!
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I don’t think all writers are sad, she said. I think it’s the other way around- all sad people write.
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The only ones they can turn against you are those who were never with you.
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Now that you have it all, do you ever wish you could go back to when you had it simple?
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I build my walls from the mess they leave.
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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.
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The greatest heartache comes from loving another soul, they said, beyond reason, beyond doubt, with no hope of salvation.
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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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Love is a dormant volcano, lying in wait, biding its time.
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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.
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I learned that writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don’t get the thing you want the most.
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I saw love in your smile and I recognized it for the first time in my life. But you had a plane to catch and I was already home.
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And I sighed and wept for what could not be–and for all that could have been.
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What is she like? I was told – she is a melancholy soul.
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How do I thank my mother for giving me the life she desperately wanted to give herself.
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To love is a dare, when hope and despair, are gates upon it hinges.
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When love finds you, it doesn’t come as crashing waves or thunderbolts. It appears as a song on the radio or a particular blue in the sky. It dawns on you slowly, like a warm winter sunrise-where the promise of summer shines out from within.
LANG LEAV