Memory is a tenuous thing. . . . flickering glimpses, blue and white, like ancient, decomposing 16mm film. Happiness escapes me there, where faces are vague and yesterday seems to come tied up in ribbons of pain. Happiness? I look for it intead in today, where memory is something I can still touch, still rely on. I find it in the smiles of new friends, the hope blossoming inside. My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.

i expected demands. he gifted me with tenderness. i expected ego. he let me experiment. i expected disrespect. he called me beautiful. i expected him to expect perfection. he taught me all i needed to know.

Then teach me how to not care about someone who was everything to me. All I want is to know she's okay. Is that too much to ask?

Falling in love with someone is the surest highway to hurt that I know. When the door to love opens, the window to control closes.

Eventually, it becomes a matter of scale. When the good outweighs the bad, you stay. When the bad is the only thing you notice anymore, you think about your future, or what's left of it, consider options.

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

Love is only found in books