let me tell you what happens when you cook down the syrup of loss over the open fire of sorrow: it solidfies into something wlaw. not grief, like you'd expect, or even regret. no, it gets thick as paste, black as ash; yet it isn't until you dip a finger in and feel that sharp taste dissolving on your tounge that you realize this is angel in its purest form, unrefined; a substance to be weighed and measyred and spread.

There is a gulf as wide as an ocean between should and want, and I am drowning in it.

How could you go about choosing something that would hold the half of your heart you had to bury?

The problem was , you never heard anyone say,"wow, check out the brain on that babe.

What you didn't tell someone was just as debilitating as what you did.

Happiness is what you choose to remember.

A fire can't burn forever. Eventually, it consumes itself.