They hugged again, merrily, waltzing messily in the kitchen, and kissed, merrily, waltzing more.

I want our summers to always be like this — a kitchen wrecked with love, a table overflowing with baked goods warming the already warm air.

I'm so full of love I could barely eat.

I am sitting at my kitchen table waiting for my lover to arrive with lettuce and tomatoes and rum and sherry wine and a big floury loaf of bread in the fading sunlight. Coffee is percolating gently, and my mood is mellow.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

notice how falling raindrops have a way of looking like repeating ellipses that never quite know when to end.

some people live in the quiet spaces between the words that writers use; there's no sugarcoating it.

heartbreak wears the skin of a thirty three year old woman, singing lullabies to an empty cradle.

you call a boy beautiful when he least expects it – like an unplanned confession.

you walk into poetry, head down, the way most people walk into hallways – regularly, routinely.

You said I killed you — haunt me, then!

I' m not a religious person but I do sometimes think God made you for me.

Because my love for you is higher than words, I have decided to fall silent.

They asked, "do you love her to death?" I said, "speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life."

I am trying to make myself digestible. I am trying to make myself easy to love.

There seemed to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.