His name has slipped from my lips countless times. He is on my mind every second of the day, on my dreams every night. He is, undoubtedly, mine.

I will only let you touch me
if your hands are so full of intention that every brush of your palms feels like you writing a novel on my skin.

That’s the trouble with loving a wild thing: You’re always left watching the door.

When I first met you, that’s what I remember. I looked up at the sky and thought, I’m going to love this person because even the sky looks different.

You don’t know how deeply you are intertwined with someone until you try to walk away from them.

The best feeling in the world is knowing your presence and absence both mean something to someone.

I love you, that means I’m not just here for the pretty parts. I’m here no matter what.

She was desperate and she was choosy at the same time and, in a way, beautiful, but she didn’t have quite enough going for her to become what she imagined herself to be.

I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.

I think about dying but I don’t want to die, not even close. In fact my problem is the complete opposite. I want to live, I want to escape. I feel trapped and bored and claustrophobic, theres so much to see and so much to do but I somehow still find myself doing nothing at all. I’m wasting every second, even now i’m writing this when I should be out there, I should be living. I’m still here in this metaphorical bubble of existence and I can’t quite figure out what the hell i’m doing or how to get out.