Who would have listened to his tales of woe when his love was the flickering lamp over his own decaying tomb?

I wish there was a word more than 'love' itself to convey what I feel for you.

Walking alone is not difficult but when we have walked a mile worth a thousand years with someone then coming back alone is what is difficult.

Love, he told himself, was open to interpretation like any other abstract indulgence but followed the same principles everywhere, irrespective of everything else. One, either won or lost in love, there was no bridge in between, and he decided he had lost, lost to himself, if not to her.

There is no home as comfortable as your father's arms and no bed as soft as your mother's lap.

Not watching the path where his legs took him, he walked on because he knew he had to walk ahead, leaving his past behind.

One half of me is a hopeless romantic. The other half is well... just realistic.