Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.