Goodnight dear. If you were in my bed it might be the back of your head I was touching, where the hair is short, or it might be up in the front where it makes little caves above your head. But wherever it was, it would be the sweetest place, the sweetest place.

You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.

I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.

I am not a person to say the words out loud I think them strongly, or let them hunger from the page: know it from there, from my silence, from somewhere other than my tongue the quiet love the silent rage.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

If she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys.

And yet you are all that you have, so you must be enough. There is no other way.

I am afraid I will be like this forever.

I hope you discover that love is both a feeling and an action, like light is both a particle and a wave.

I have found it necessary to remain silent.

I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.

The Last Night I Loved You

You can only give your heart away once, after that, everything else will chase your first love.

I do nothing, and I fret about it.