“A dishonor greater than any affair, is that of a friend who never was.”

A full glass for an empty heart – the temporary bandage for a fatal would.

The smell of oak reminds me of summers spent sleeping under canvas, crackling fires and roasted coffee, the soft sound of guitar and voices in unison.

A collection of thoughts bundled together and bound in twine – more toxic than any chemical, my very own poison.

I sit by the sea wall, willing the waves to stay. Pulling away with gentle abandon – they avenge me for doing the same.

And in the end-you didn’t deserve my thoughts or my ink.

Her body may lay on your sheets, but my name sits softly on your lips.

The leaves know when to let go – if only I had the same instinct.

Painting over cracks as you watch the ceiling fall – not everything can be healed with love.

Don’t waste your words on me, your face speaks in volumes that your breath could never reach.

Hollow intent and echoes affection, a call with no response. Who could trust a dormant heart – where apathy is shaped like love?

Leaves dance on twisted arms, swaying on the breeze as though choreographed by unseen hands. Even the faithless could find themselves converts, by the smell of dampened earth and its blossoming rose.

I see the way that he is with you – holding your heart with softness he never spared for mine.

Lies sound so sweet when they are wrapped in velvet, a luxurious deception that charms my restless spirit – and I’m forever taken by beautiful things.

I fill the shadow of the girl you want, a placeholder to the one I know you’d rather – I’ll do for now, but not forever.

Maybe this time I choose ignorance, because giving began to feel like losing – repairing a house from rubble, and making sandcastles with the ash.

The knot in a grain of wood, a frost covering sodden grass. Mornings warmed by the rising sun and brewing coffee – the vision of the poet.

Iran began a policy of expanding its revolution, of interfering with the affairs of its neighbors

Too many expedients may spoil an affair.

To separate man and woman at school, at work, at meetings, in short, to separate them at life, is the affair of perverted and fusty minds! Where there is separation, there is excessive primitiveness!

Religion has become an impersonal affair, an institutional loyalty. It survives on the level of activities rather than in the stillness of commitment.

The world, dear Agnes, is a strange affair.

Men have always looked before and after, and rebelled against the existing order. But for their divine discontent, men would not have been men, and there would have been no progress in human affairs.

Gold gives to the ugliest thing a certain charming air, For that without it were else a miserable affair.

The mind and spirit of man advance when he is tried by suffering. … so suffering and tribulation free man from the petty affairs of this worldly life until he arrives at a state of complete detachment.