I’ve a mad, sensuous love affair with words; our dancing more like capering, our tongues sensibly twisted, sweating punctuation as we move to the vibrant rhythm of twenty-six heartbeats.

I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem.

I may be cynical when I say that very rarely is the beloved more than a shaping spirit for the lover’s dreams. And perhaps such a thing is enough. To be a muse may be enough. The pain is when the dreams change, as they do, as they must. Suddenly the enchanted city fades and you are left alone again in the windy desert. As for your beloved, she didn’t understand you. The truth is, you never understood yourself.

Loneliness becomes an acid that eats away at you.

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.

To die for lack of love is horrible. The asphyxia of the soul.

A week of love and gone again,
Such happiness so quickly over.
Eight days of bliss are worth the pain,
But hours of love should last forever,
Should last forever, forever.

You leave me for the paths of glory,
But my heart will follow you all the way.

Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.

I broke your heart.
Now barefoot I tread
on shards.

I’m going to make everything around me beautiful—that will be my life.