My heart is drumming in my chest so hard it aches, but it's the good kind of ache, like the feeling you get on the first real day of autumn, when the air is crisp and the leaves are all flaring at the edges and the wind smells just vaguely of smoke - like the end and the beginning of something all at once.

And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.

i feel like a curtain has dropped away and i'm seeing people for who they really are, different, and sharp, and unknowable.

Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.

You came form different starts and you'll come to different ends.

But that's the problem with love - it acts on you, works through you, resists your attempts to control.

Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep because of what I'm leaving behind.