I worried about the fires, watching places I love burn. I worried about breathing, I worried about the heat. I worried I would never be happy again.
Love’s pain spreads across our flesh faster than any plague. As soon as you think you’re cured, you relapse.
Rather than down a bottle of brandy and plummet off a bridge, the ringless should try to understand where their partner is coming from and then decide — chill the hell out or move the hell on?
If we stop searching for what we should get in a relationship maybe we’ll start to pay attention to what we can give.
Marry a man who doesn’t read literature. Or paint works of art or make music.