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That I could study you for a lifetime, carrying all of your peculiarities and discretions in the webs of my spidery palms, and still feel empty-handed.
Love is a home and a mortgage and the promise of permanence; love is measured and paced, and this, the too-hasty sprint of your pulse, that’s drugs.
It frustrated him immensely that he would never be able to prove that time didn’t stop when she met his eye.
he doesn’t want to be the person she hides from, he wants to be the person she hides with.
want you to say everything, anything. I want to have your thoughts, I want to bottle them, I want to put them in my drawer for safekeeping.
If this is what it is to burn, he thought, then I will be worth more as scattered ash than any of my unscathed pieces.
Why was she truthful with him and not with others? Why did she wish to know his truths while immediately rejecting them from other people in her life?
Every time you love, pieces of you break off and get replaced by something you steal from someone else. It seems like it’s the right shape but it’s slightly different every time, so that eventually, very very quietly and over days and days and days, you are transformed into something unrecognizable, and it happens so slowly you don’t even notice, like shedding scales and making new ones.
