Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.

I'm mesmerized by the way his fingers move confidently along her skin, as though her body is his to reat and touch and tend to. She was mine before she was yours: The words are there, unexpectedly, surging from my throat to my tongue. I swallow them back.

Funny how time heals. Like that bullet in my ribs. It's there, I know it's there, but I can barely feel it at all anymore.

I didn't realize then what a privilege that was: to be bored with your best friend; to have time to waste.

It's going to be okay. Words that mean nothing. really, just sounds intoned into vastness and darkness, little scrabbling attempts to latch on to something when we're falling.

There is so much fragility in kissing, in other people: It is all glass.

We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.