Write like it matters, and it will.
And when it comes, her kiss is like something not so much felt as found.
I refuse to let the past find me here.
Who but the mad would choose to keep on living? In the end, aren't we all just a little crazy?
I've had so many bikini waxes, I cry every time I see a Popsicle stick.
How do people stay in love, anyway? Is it a choice? Or is it like those plants we studied in biology that mutate into something new and totally different but are still part of the same plant family?