Pain writes the words, sorrow wields the pen, tears wet the paper, and the story mends the heart.
He knows her like man knows earth, touching the surface but unaware of her depth.
It’s the in-between, the sustenance, not just the gears and bolts that make a human. When you forget to find out how the person was built—the oil, chemistry, and the craft—you miss all the beauty.
The ending of your story all depends on the beginning of ours.
A disastrous flaw in our design is that the heart always defies the brain.
I watched him with wonder like the stars watch the moon, falling in love with every crescent, dark side, and dream.
Love alone means nothing unless you have a tortured heart for it to soothe.
Life is a lie. We should fear it more than death. We live fearful of dying, terrified of the unknown … when, really, every truth is in our last breath.
Sometimes I think my scars are beautiful, but then I remember not everyone shares the same love of art.
If love were human I would’ve set them on fire by now — a screaming blaze of smoke and flesh. I’d breathe in the blackness once more just to feel love’s destruction, its mortality filling in the hollow of my ribcage without a heart.