“A year has passed, and even after all that has changed, I know one thing hasn’t. I still want you.”

I’ve experienced departure far too much to have the courage and call anyone my own.

The clock ticks by and all I could think of is that at least I’m a day closer to seeing you.

I taught myself the art of forgetfulness. If they were meant to be remembered, they would have stayed.

You say we’re nonsense together, but nothing makes more sense to me.

We preserve their places in our hearts depending on the way they leave them.

I got used to temporary things. I’m afraid I might not want anything permanent at all.

I want to fold you into my book, like a petal, so that you’d never leave.

No matter how astray the becoming might be, I’ll never search for the old in me.

Perhaps their voices never leave us and we spend our lives fumbling for quiet corners where we can hear them most.

Lay your head on mine and let me breathe you instead of air.

Refrain from giving pieces of yourself to those who get close, for people leave, and gifts that are given cannot be returned.

I’ve experienced departure far too much to have the courage and call anyone my own.

You’ll roam the world and come to realize: It’s all in you, to be free or not to be.

We reshape our memories into uglier versions because it’s hard to forget them while they’re still beautiful.

This is face blindness, but not really it. Among all the faces I see, I could only see yours.

I’ve always had a fear of endings, but it comes as relief to me that among all the dying things, I am one too.

The first time you walked away, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Every time after that, it felt normal.

Nobody is allowed to break the law.

And in between a guilty laughter that pretended to move on, her eyes shed tears of reality and broke all her delusions.

You said I was sunshine breaking shadows into your night.

Those broken girls have the deepest love.

The broken girls are the flowers of the earth they grow through tough conditions they bloom for themselves,

There’s still magic in a heart that’s been broken.

As far as I know, he never asked where she had been or why she had left and she never told. I guess some stories do not need telling.