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

There’s no story that’s the start of itself.

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.

I was the place where you anchored. I was the deep water where you could be weightless. I was the surface where you saw your own reflection. You scooped me up in your hands.

If you continually write and read yourself as a fiction, you can change what's crushing you.

Meatspace still has some advantages for a carbon-based girl.

What's invisible to us is also crucial for our own well-being.