He said that
Still be friends.
But I think
He meant that
Be the kind of
Strangers that share
Silent memories and
A passing smile
Every once in a while.
I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.
My only regret is that
I didn’t tell enough people
to fuck off.
Books fall open, you fall in. When you climb out again, you’re a bit larger than you used to be.
The sea is emotion incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with words and rejects all shackles. No matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can’t.
We are so lightly here. It is in love that we are made. In love we disappear.
Instead of ‘complaining’ I prefer to say I’m ‘stating my counterfactual preferences’.
Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it.