I wish my shadow would get up and walk beside me.

At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky

He doesn't have to say it, i feel it too; it's not subtle - like every bell for miles and miles is ringing at once, loud and clanging, hungry ones and tiny, happy, chiming ones, all of them sounding off in this moment. I put my hands around his neck, pull him to me, and then he's kissing me hard and so deep, and i am flying, sailing, soaring.

I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.

Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.