It happens like this. "One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else--closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel--one sent to you for some higher purpose; to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them--even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering--the reason for their presence will become clear in due time."Though here is a word of warning--you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn't to save you but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled; the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.-------------------------------------------------It's so dark right now, I can't see any light around me. That's because the light is coming from you. You can't see it but everyone else can.

You were you,and I was I;we were twobefore our time.I was yoursbefore I knew,and you have always been mine too.

Before I fellin love with words,with setting skies and singing birds—it was you I fellin love with first.

Love is a game of tic-tac-toe,constantly waitingfor the next x or o.

Like time suspended, a wound unmended-- you and I. We had no ending, no said goodbye; For all my life, I'll wonder why.

Saving YouThe darkness takes him over, the sickness pulls him in; his eyes—a blown out candle, I wish to go with him.Sometimes I see a flicker— a light that shone from them; I hold him to me tightly, before he's gone again.

There is safety in numbness– there is solace in sleep.

I loved you once and now I must spend my whole life explaining why.

I don't think all writers are sad, she said.I think it's the other way around—all sad people write.

She lends her pen,to thoughts of him,that flow from it,in her solitary.For she is his poet,And he is her poetry.

Xs and OsLove is a gameof tic-tac-toe,constantly waiting,for the next x or o.

Stardust
If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you. Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you. Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I.
When we leave this world, we give up all our possessions and our memories. Love is the only thing we take with us. It is all we carry from one life to the next.

First love," said Ida with a sigh. "That's the one that kills you.

Because sooner or later, all kinds of love - crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.

Audrey, if you had the choice, would you rather be his muse or be in his arms?" "I want to be both. I know it's the exception rather than the rule, but I can't hepl what I want.

TimeYou were the oneI wanted mostto stay.But time could notbe kept at bay.The more it goes,the more it's gone—the more it takes away.

Without a doubt,I must read,all the booksI've read about.See the artworkshung on hooks,that I have only,seen in books.

There was a feeling of inevitability when I met you. The sense that we would be together; that there would be a moment when you would look at me in a certain way, and we could cross the threshold from friendship into something so much more.We spoke once about lovers who kept finding each other, no matter how many times the world came between them. And I think I had to break your heart, and you had to break mine. How else could we know the worth of what we were given?I think you were always meant to know me a little better than anyone else. And our lives were fated to converge like some cosmic dance. I know there is terrible distance between us. But our bodies are made of celestial light, and we are hurtling through space and time, toward the most beautiful collision.

That night, we talked the way old friends do, with candor and ease.

Do you know what it is like,to lie in bed awake;with thoughts to hauntyou every night,of all your past mistakes.Knowing sleep will set it right - if you were not to wake.

I can't believe how hard it is. The pain is indescribable. It's like I've been turned into sandstone and my insides are being slowly hollowed out by a chisel and mallet.

It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.

We spoke on the phone for the first time that morning. My back against the chest of drawers, my knees tucked under my

Death, like fiction, is brutal in its symmetry. Take this story and strip it down -all the way back- until you are left with two points. Two dots on a vast, blank canvas, separeted by a sea of white. Here, we have come to the first point, where the batj is drawn and the hand is reachinh for the razor blade. I will meet you at the next, by the axle of a screaming wheel, the revolution of a clock, the closing of an orbit.

One day you will be nostalgic for today.

...you cannot control the depth of a wound another inflicts upon you.

You were none, and now you're all; your worth will rise, the more I fall.

Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.

There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way--has an almost hypnotic effect.

I did not know that it was love until I knew.

It was from a very young age that I fell in love with this wonderful artifact--the turn of the first page is almost like a sacred ritual to me. Whenever I walk into a library, it is never without some degree of reverence.

For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.

Anything and everything, the two almost the same--everything says, have it all; anything, one to claim.

It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.

He deftly dealt his swiftest blow--I fell further than, I was meant to go.

Because someday, in one way or another, you will be taken from me or I you.

The glass bottle does not know its own contents. It has no idea whether it is a vessel for the most delicious apple cider, a lovingly crafted wine, or a bitter poison.

...but how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

Your first love isn't the first person you give your heart to- it's the first one who beaks it.

When did you stop caring? he asked.When did you start noticing? she replied.

Had I known, I would not have left you,alone beneath those stars,on the night when I last saw you,not knowing it was the last.

Here are the things I want for you -I want you to be happy. I want someone else to know the warmth of your smile, to feel the way I did when I was in your presence.I want you to know how happy you once made me and though you really did hurt me, in the end, I was better for it. I don't know if what we had was love, but if it wasn't, I hope to never fall in love. Because of you, I know I am too fragile to bear it.I want you to remember my lips beneath your fingers and how you told me things you never told another soul. I want you to know that I have kept sacred, everything you had entrusted in me and I always will.Finally, I want you to know how sorry I am for pushing you away when I had only meant to bring you closer. And if I ever felt like home to you, it was because you were safe with me. - I want you to know that most of all.

Her heart is played like well worn stringsIn her eyes the sadness singsOf one who was destined of better things

I have always thought of memories as fragments, like colored glass shards in a kaleidoscope. It is the source of great beauty in our lives, yet the cause of such heartache. It remains the bridge between our past and present - it gives weight and dimension to our very existence.

The scatterbrain,is a little like,the patter of rain.Neither here,nor there,but everywhere.

Shrinking in a corner,pressed into the wall;do they know I'm present,am I here at all?Is there a written rule book,that tells you how to be—all the right things to talk about—that everyone has but me?Slowly I am withering—a flowered deprived of sun;longing to belong to—somewhere or someone.

Shrinking in a corner,pressed into the wall;do they know I'm present,am I here at all?

Do you love me?" I ask.In your hesitation I found my answer.

I saw love in your smile and I recognized it for the first time in my life. But you had a plane to catch and I was already home.

You forsake all that you hold dear,for a dream that is not your own;you would rather live a liethan live your life aloneUniverse of Us and on thoughtcatalog

You forsake all that you hold dear,for a dream that is not your own;you would rather live a liethan live your life alone

Our emotions pull us in different directions. The stronger the emotion, the greater the pull. Feelings are not always practical, nor do they make any logical sense. That's just the way it goes.

What was it like to lose him?" Asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded:It was like hearing every goodbye ever said tome—said all at once.

AcceptanceThere are things I missthat I shouldn't,and those I don'tthat I should.Sometimes we wantwhat we couldn't—sometimes we lovewho we could.

AGE DIFFERENCEWhat if I told you that one day you will meet a girl who is unlike anyone else you've known. She will know all the right things to say, what makes you laugh, what turns you on, what drives you wild and best of all, you will do for her exactly what she does for you."When will I meet her?"Well let's put it this way, she doesn't even exist yet.

If any person claims to have loved twice in all their life — they have not loved at all.

Neither here, nor there. But everywhere.

Every letterthat she types;every keystrokethat she strikes-To spell your nameagain and again,is all she everwants to write.

You can create something that is pure genius, but you have to get your timing right.

Writing is a conduit. It opens up a passageway into the past. Not just for the writer, but for the reader too. Both readers and writer are linked by the commonality of human experience.

In a sea of strangers,you've longed to know me.Your life spent sailingto my shores.

When every dream has turned to dust, and your highest hopes no longer soar.When places you once yearned to see, grow further away on distant shores.When every night you close your eyes, and long inside for something more.Remember this and only this, if nothing else you can recall—There was a life a girl once led, where you were loved the most of all.

RegretsTiming is irrelevant when two people are meant for each other. It's what I once believed.But we met during a time when I was such a mess, when I still had so much to figure out. How could I have known how crucial every word, every action was or how losing you would be something I would always regret?If only you could have met me now, how different it would be. How much I have changed. How I have grown. I learned so much from all the mistakes I made with you. I just wish I had made them with someone else.