I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

The humiliation I go through/when I think of my past/can only be described as grace./We are created by being destroyed.

I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

We are created by being destroyed.

Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?