I loved you once and now I must spend my whole life explaining why.
LANG LEAVWhen in truth, it is the transparency that kills you. The pain of seeing through to something you can never quite touch.
More Lang Leav Quotes
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Don’t stay where you are needed. Go where you are loved.
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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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You’re young and there’s still so much ahead. So much uncertainty and doubt. It keeps you up at night-this wild, restless feeling. But you don’t know how free you are. For this short, miraculous time, you have no one to answer to, nothing to lose. You belong wholly to yourself.
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I still search for you in crowds, in empty fields and soaring clouds. In city lights and passing cars, on winding roads and wishing stars.
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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.
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And you said ecstasy was a storm cloud, just before the rain would burst into the night sky, like a thousand aquatic stars-and not one single moment before.
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It was a kind love, a selfless love. I was a dreamer, and you were a traveler. We met at the crossroads. 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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I think there is a sense of ownership in knowing, isn’t there? You let people in, and they claim parts of you-they fly their flag over uncharted territory and from then onward-you cease to belong wholly to yourself.
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The time may not be prime for us, though you are a special person. We may be just two different clocks, that do not tock, in unison.
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Some days it felt like a burden, to smile for you. To keep the lines of worry from etching into your forehead.
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For she is his poet, and he is her poetry.
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It was beautifully worded and painfully read; the things that were written, were those never said.
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Here’s the story of my life. Hoping they would care about me or wishing they wouldn’t care so much.
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Like time suspended, a wound unmended – you and I. We had no ending, no said goodbye; For all my life, I’ll wonder why.
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In many ways, a book is, in itself, a tiny universe. Each page is like a newly formed galaxy, fashioned from a single, pulsing thought. A book travels for days, for years, sometimes for centuries to meet you at an exact point in time.
LANG LEAV