When I lie awake in bed at night, I stare at the ceiling and tally how many people I wish I wouldn’t have pushed away, and the answer is too high to count. So I just lie in the midnight, hearing only sobs and church choirs and glass breaking and big bangs and silence.
Maybe angels are real. Or maybe some people are just good, really, really good.
If any term containing the letters l-o-v-e-r has an expiration date, then I do not want anything to do with it.
I wish you knew what it was felt like to not just screw around, but to love. To be consumed by a wildfire and to be addicted to the heat and to be in love with that terrifying yet exhilarating feeling.
I only smiled at him on the metro earlier today because I was melancholy, yet now there is a collarbone on my lips and smeared scarlet lipstick on them.
Sometimes a really pretty song will play on the radio while I’m driving, and I’ll get goose bumps that actually hurt and a thumping heart and blurry eyes. There are no seconds or minutes or hours to infinity. Just there, I am just there, right there.