“I miss the love I used to see in her eyes.”

Broken crayons still color.

She still lives in the silence between my thoughts.

The turmoil of her past is blazing my breath.

A sky is full of stars. Still, I am gazing at her eyes.

I still find myself searching the crowds for your face.

Even our shadows were made for each other.

Even the flowers are jealous of the curves of her body.

She is a kind of poison I would die for.

I miss how her whisky lips used to run all over me.

I am just a star in the space of her memories.

My eyes thread of happiness leads back to you.

You were the hardest lesson I ever had to learn.

It’s hard to breathe when she is not around.

She is the moon covered in the dress of stars.

She is the answer to my every prayer.

Missing you come in waves. Tonight I am just drowning.

The self-assured believer is a greater sinner in the eyes of God than the troubled disbeliever.

Your eyes tell a story and I long to complete it.

When I turn my mind’s eye upon myself, I understand that I am a thing which is incomplete and dependent on another and which aspires without limit to ever greater and better things…

If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of the potential, for the eye which, ever young and ardent, sees the possible.

I want those forehead to forehead moments with eyes closed deeply. So deeply that the world disappears and every scent of you leaves an imprint on my mind.

In public affairs men are often better pleased that the truth, though known to everybody, should be wrapped up under a decent cover than if it were exposed in open daylight to the eyes of all the world.

“I just like being with you.” And just like that my heart collapsed under the weight of his eyes on me.

When the missionaries came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said “Let us pray.” We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had the Bible and they had the land.