Over the years, confusing fragments, lost corners of stories, have a clearer meaning when seen in a new light, a different place.

I want to die on your chest but not yet she wrote sometime in the 13th century of our love

A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle. Half my days I cannot bear to touch you. The rest of my time I feel like it doesn’t matter if I will ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it’s how much you can bear. No date. No name attached.

A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands, knowing it is something that feeds him more than water.

when someone speaks he looks at a mouth, not eyes and their colors, which, it seems to him, will always alter depending on the light of a room, the minute of the day. Mouths reveal insecurity or smugness or any other point on the spectrum of character. For him they are the most intricate aspect of faces. He's never sure what an eye reveals. but he can read how mouths darken into callousness, suggest tenderness. One can often misjudge an eye from its reaction to a simple beam of sunlight.

There's a lot of thievery involved in writing. You're breaking into other people's spaces and other people's stories.

I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you.