It is December, and nobody asked if I was ready.
Hands learn. More than minds do.
We both know how to hide our sharpest parts, I just don’t always recognize my own weaponry.
When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.
There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry.
If loving you means getting dirty, bring on the grime.
And I’m going to pain the solar systems on the backs of her hands, so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty.
Our model ships look perfect in their bottles, but we do not know if they are seaworthy. Sometimes the one that reaches your harbor has already been through the storm.
Because rain will wash away everything, if you let it.
I didn’t tell him that even after a crash, a key still fits the ignition. There just isn’t anything left to drive.
When I meet you, in that moment, I am no longer a part of your future. I start quickly becoming part of your past. But in that instant, I get to share a part of your present. And you get to share a part of mine. And that is the greatest present of all.
Be careful, darling. Your footsteps land heavy here. Your racket will wake the dragons.
I love hands like I love people. They are the maps and compasses with which we navigate our way through life, feeling our way over mountains passed and valleys crossed; they are our histories.
It does not matter how long we have been kept in cages. It does not matter how strong your gravity is. We were always meant to fly.
Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over and over, and you don’t get any closer to Carnegie Hall.
We build model ships in bottles, whispering life into the toothpicks and wire; we make plans and blueprints for the one we hope is coming. And come they do. Fleets of vessels. Battleships and barges. They arrive on the horizon, flags to the sky.
Getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along.
He will never marry her, the translator tells me, after we have been driving in the dark for a few minutes. Yes, I say, but he can love her.