“Stop accepting abstract noun love. Real love is always action verb.”

Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.

In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.

If we are what we love, Then I am whatever you are made of.

I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.

Anxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.

The stars are where we came from. They orchestrated our return to the place we can always come home: our ancient, timeless love.

You are what it feels like to watch the final silvers of sun fall and die into the silver ocean; tangerine sky giving way to moon-glow and starlight.

We weren’t written in the stars; all that glitters wasn’t ours.

Last night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.

Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

Standing in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

Do I look as good as I remember, Looking back at you from over my shoulder, smug as the devil?

The day I made peace with my pain was the day I was born again.

“Ashes”, we once thought, but the embers in our eyes might have bought us time.

How do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?

Nothing I accept about myself can be used against me to diminish me.

If I can give you one strong piece of advice, when you go away for that romantic weekend, whatever you do, do not accept or take the upgrade to the honeymoon suite.

Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her; but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.

It’s easier to accept the fact that you’re just not good enough. We all have a lot more than we think we have.

We cannot think of being acceptable to others until we have first proven acceptable to ourselves.

We were poor. But my mom never accepted that. She worked hard to become a residential contractor – got her master’s with honors at the University of New Orleans. I used to go to every class with her. Her father was my paternal figure.

You may not like what’s happening, but just accept it, and let’s try to live together.

I now see how owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.