I love you' really is the gateway drug of breaking up.

And I vaguely remember her smiling at me from the door way the glittering ambiguity of a girls smile, which seems to promise an answer to the question, but never gives it. The question, the one we’ve all been asking since girls stopped being gross, the question that is to simple to be uncomplicated: Does she like me or does she LIKE me?

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of the stars to cross.

Crying is you, plus tears

We all matter - maybe less then a lot but always more than none.

We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors . . . But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters.

That didn’t happen, of course. Things never happened the way I imagined them.