…only a poet could frame a language that could frame a world.

Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there.

I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.

She was a monster, but she was my monster.

What to say? That the end of love is a haunting. A haunting of dreams. A haunting of silence. Haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost. Life ebbs. The pulse is too faint. Nothing stirs you. Some people approve of this and call it healing. It is not healing. A dead body feels no pain.

Don't you think it's strange that life, described as so rich and full, a camel-trail of adventure, should shrink to this coin-sized world? A head on one side, a story on the other. Someone you loved and what happened. That's all there is when you dig in your pockets. The most significant thing is someone else's face. What else is embossed on your hands but her?

I have a theory that every time you make an important choice, the part of you left behind continues the other life you could have had.