Your name hangs in my heart like a bell's tongue.

Proclaim your pride and bitterness loudly to the world, but to me speak softly, and tell me simply that she doesn't love you.

Take it, and turn to facts my fantasies.

And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love.' A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee's brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover's lip: 'Forever.

To offend is my pleasure; I love to be hated.

A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear.

The dream, alone, is of interest. What is life without a dream?