More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Sometimes I touch the things you used to touch, looking for echoes of your fingers.
look at others not as others but as people you might have been, as people your parents might have been, as people your children might still be.
You don’t have to be the person you tell people you are. You can just be who you are.
You will be wondering why no one picked up the paper next to the bin, when the missile breaks through the atmosphere, and whines through the air on its way down. You will be swimming with friends when the Earth rips itself open to show the stars its beating heart. You will be returning something at the store when the men in lab coats make a terrible mistake with a deadly virus. You will be looking into the eyes of someone you love and you will marvel at how the simple act of looking at them makes you happy and so maybe when the world ends, you will be ok with it ending.
Even if you write down everything that’s ever crossed your heart, there will still come a day when none of your words can explain how you feel.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not you. It’s me.
Yet love’s like a needle on a record, taking parts of you away as it draws sharply and constantly across the heart, in slow descending circles, just to hear a song hidden in the scratches one more time.
As you drift further into the past, my memory of you fractures and splinters until all I can clearly remember is not a picture but a feeling.
There is a part of you that just wants to see the kind of person you could be, through someone else’s eyes.
You’re wrong. Happiness isn’t forgetting. Happiness is finding new things to remember.
You want a new life. But you take the new one you get every morning for granted.
Maybe looking for more is like going to the edge of a cliff, and walking into the beautiful view.
Poetry is a way to take pictures of things you can’t take pictures of. Pictures are a way to say things you can’t say.
And I hope our hands grow old in each others. If not, then why have hands, at all.
“But this is just another box.” “No it’s not, it’s the box we put you in if you say, ‘Don’t put me in a box.’”
If the type of person you wish existed doesn’t, then that is who you must become.
We can be beautiful and new forever. Give me forever and I’ll prove it.
Your poetry is lonely. And yet, you write to feel less alone.
If sadness is what happens when you turn your anger inwards, hope is what happens when you turn your happiness, outwards.
