There's two kinds of women--those you write poems about and those you don't.

I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you.

I realise there's something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they're experts at letting things go.

If you heard your lover scream in the next room and you ran in and saw his pinkie on the floor, in a small puddle of blood. You wouldn't rush to the pinkie and say, 'Darling, are you OK? ' No, you'd wrap your arms around his shoulders and worry about the pinkie later. The same holds true if you heard the scream, ran in and saw his hand or -god forbid- his whole arm. But suppose you hear your lover scream in the next room, and you run in and his head is on the floor next to his body. Which do you rush to and comfort first?

I've had the wind knocked out of me, but never the hurricane

Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth, like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

I swallowed a hand grenade that never stops exploding.