She was a gentle sort of horror.

Awake, free, disappointed by reality,
he takes refuge in the dream again.

You have to fail a little, die a little, go insane a little, to come out the other side.

The ironic tragedy is that life has to be lived forward but only makes sense in reverse.

I cover my eyes to see your picture in my mind.

One never forgets the taste of certain tears.

She was pointing at the moon,
but I was looking at her hand.

My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears.

She was in a reverie of sweet remembrance.

The whisper of the autumn in the maples was pleading. Die with me.

The silence is not an absence of sound
but a music for sensible souls.

Do you still perform autopsies on conversations you had lives ago?

Nothing is harder on the soul, than the smell of dreams, while they're evaporating.

Stories and poetry were her delight.

We leave doors open for people who'll never knock again. Stubborn human heart.
Living for the maybes and what ifs. Hoping, until the day it dies.

Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.

Her sorrow was too violent for tears.

It's hard to tell the difference between sea and sky, between voyager and sea.
Between reality and the workings of the heart.

Under peaceful conditions,
the warlike man attacks himself.

She longs to escape into fantasy.

Oh to be free of myself,
with nothing left to remember,
to have my heart as bare
as a tree in December.