When he kissed me, his lips soft and careful, it was all the thrill of our first kiss and all the practiced familiarity of the accumulated memory of all our kisses.

It felt wrong to be so proud of something that I had absolutely nothing to do with, but I couldn't help myself.

If that moment had been a real thing, it would've been a butterfly, flapping and fluttering toward the sun.

if you were really busy, you could almost forget about it, but when you stopped moving, it was murder

He was brother to a liar and brother to an angel, son of a dream and son of a dreamer.

Some days seem to fit together like a stained glass window. A hundred little pieces of different color and mood that, when combined, create a complete picture.

Flickering lights anonymous doors my heart escaping in drips i'm still waking up but she's still sleeping this ICU is hotel for the dead