Love does not die. It lives.
There is something oddly therapeutic about trudging through marshy sand, the feeling of squishiness below the feet signaling to the brain that it’s OK to just let go for a while.
The city loves you when you’re flying high and kicks you when you’re down.
I may not have had closure, but I have tasted wisdom. Anyone who has had their heart broken or even just bruised, has learned that there is a finality in the facts.
Brownie, have you ever met someone you just feel at home with?
I am lonely here sometimes. I’m like the gate, swinging in the breeze when I long for someone to just secure the latch and stop me from flailing about.
It’s hard to put into words. It’s as much a feeling as it is the way your stomach flutters when you think of him. It’s the feeling of being reached and reaching someone. It’s the feeling of being sen by someone for who you really are and being adored for it. That, for me, is connection.
I could smell garlic, butter, and wine – the world’s most delicious flavor combination. It made me feel warm, like the first few sips of wine always do.
The old woman paid no attention to the camellia until that morning, when a fleck of pink caught her eye. The single saucer-size blossom was more magnificent than she could ever have imagined. More beautiful than any rose she’d ever seen, it swayed in the morning breeze with such an air of royalty, the old woman felt the urge to curtsey in its presence.
He left. And I’ve realized that when someone wants to leave, you let him go.
Invasive plants were like all evil things; the only way to ensure that they wouldn’t return was to face them head-on, battle it out, and win. Anything else was only a temporary fix. I sighed, thinking of my own life. I was letting the weeds grow all over me. They were threatening my happiness and, in some ways, my life. So why couldn’t I face them?
I sighed, looking down at the book in my hands. The Years. I rested my elbow against the arm of the couch and cracked the spine. It had the feel of a book that hadn’t been touched in decades, creaking, as if to say ahhh.
Love, she thinks, is not meant for her.
Nerver underestimate the power of flowers to reach someone’s soul.
She feels as if her heart may burst.
So much for perfect love. Because you can blink your eyes and it can vanish, without explanation, leaving you with only your memories and your tears.
You can never play a part in life, especially not in love.
Ella isn’t like other little girls. She’s inquisitive and curious, with a heart that senses others’ emotions with the precision of Doppler radar. She drops coins from her piggy bank into the outstretched hands of the homeless in Times Square, frets over the plight of hurt animals on the roadside, and two Christmases ago, organized a coat drive at her school when she saw a little boy shivering on the playground.
No matter the state of the world, or how dark the shadow that has fallen on our city, I find it curiously comforting to know that if you plant a seed and give it sunlight and water, it will grow.
We want the kind of love that sells movie tickets.