What kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.

Islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.

He doubted her. You must never doubt the one you love. But they might not be telling the truth. Never mind that. You tell them the truth. What do you mean? You can't be another person's honesty, child, but you can be your own. So what should I say? When? When I love someone? You should say it.

Love's lengthways splits the heart in two - the heart where you are, the heart where you want to be.

I am a writer who happens to love women. I am not a lesbian who happens to write.

She was fragile, gentle, wide awake in a sleeping world.

The pain is when the dreams change, as they do, as they must.