“Yes, we took it all for granted-but isn’t that such a blessed thing? When you’re not even thinking about what you have, because you never imagine you someday won’t.”

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

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

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.

I don’t think all writers are sad, she said. I think it’s the other way around- all sad people write.