You could be the leaf that never falls from the tree you could be the sun that never leaves the sky this might be the happy ending without the ending this might be a reason to try

Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.

You think you know your possibilities. Then other people come into your life and suddenly there are so many more.

That no matter what i did, I would always be missing something else. And the only way to live, the only way to be happy, was to make sure the things I didn't miss meant more to me than the things I missed.

I guess it's a choice we make," she said. "What's a choice?" I asked. And she said, "How much of the world we let in.

The boy I loved didn't know I existed. Then again, he was obsessed with Camus, so he didn't know if any of us existed.

And still, for all the jealously, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we're together. That someone like me could find someone like you --- it renders me wordless. Because surely words would conspire against such luck, would protest the unlikelihood of such a turn of events.