hello. goodbye. i love you.

you are hope, hopping

you trample here and there and in between existence for absence is what you do best, to make the heart grows fonder

resilience

isn’t your strength

you’d stay in bed for days

for tiny heartbreaks persistence is when you speak of love you never speak low even in silence your screams aloud

loving to the end

longing to be found again

you’re my star, my big big shining star, I met you

one night, I met you under the limelight

your oversized shirt and my boots a number too small, they hurt my feet I’ve been limping dancing my years away

if only I knew how to tell you how I long

to hold your hand, but your fingers show me you want nothing but to slip them into mine and be vulnerable

so I held my guard down for that one. minute.

you didn’t turn the lights on and sat in the dark with me and I turned sluggish swimming an ocean of pride,

where’s my life-jacket?

still I let you

I let you love

you’re something big and I am

nothing more than forgotten dew in

a windy morning, but you,

you are sunlight

you are a new day

you have that smile, that

held back smile and a twinkle

in the eye

that says that I am

more than what I show

and I feel that I am more

than I want to be

hello hello, you said hello

I said goodbye, I love you, goodbye

-hello, goodbye, I love you from Letters to Lovers Lost.

happiest day, my love my darling, may god spend a little more time on you for the rest of your days.

In July

You and I moved fast and slow, twisted time to match the beat of our hearts, eyes closed to something no one dared to see. Go on, I said, you’ve made your choice but we breathed and lived for all the wrong reasons and you left for years without looking back and here you are now, bittersweet perfection, sullen and angry like a Cat 3 hurricane too far offshore to be noticed, sad and angry like the hot tears you once cried so long ago in July.

Diana Perry

take the wheel.

when i was little i was recklessly assuming i would grow up and life wouldn’t be overwhelming and anymore emotionally taxing.

i now desperately in need of cliches.

for a thousand more.

When you proposed you didn’t have a ring, and it was not pancakes, it was eggs. It was not fairytale-like or slow paced romantic. It was late morning and you smelled like penicillin. Your hair was crazy curls and you hadn’t shaved for like a week. You blurted, “what if you changed your name into Mrs.C.” I was stunned, offended, my eggs burnt. I said you can’t say things like that, smelling like that, looking like that. First take a shower, get a ring, and ask on bended knee. You said nonchalantly: my knees hurt.

where guilt is alive.

When you are living in a house where guilt is alive, it leaves a mark.

And when you are living in an atmosphere of daily, ever-present guilt, what does that do to children? It changes their souls.

Molly Shannon

like morning.

i think a lot about your eyes
…and how painful it is to be
in a room full of people with such
empty pockets and words that are
so heavy i cannot lift them from
the fog.

you are the greatest secret
if i could i would hold you between
my hands like morning.

Alison Malee

the unbearable.

“Our day-to-day life is bombarded with fortuities or, to be more precise, with the accidental meetings of people and events we call coincidences. “Co-incidence” means that two events unexpectedly happen at the same time, they meet: Tomas appears in the hotel restaurant at the same time the radio is playing Beethoven. We do not even notice the great majority of such coincidences. If the seat Tomas occupied had been occupied instead by the local butcher, Tereza never would have noticed that the radio was playing Beethoven… But her nascent love inflamed her sense of beauty, and she would never forget that music. Whenever she heard it, she would be touched. Everything going on around her at that moment would be haloed by the music and take on its beauty.

…Anna meets Vronsky in curious circumstances: they are at the railway station when someone is run over by a train. At the end of the novel, Anna throws herself under a train. This symmetrical composition—the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end—may seem quite “novelistic” to you, and I am willing to agree, but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as “fictive,” “fabricated,” and “untrue to life” into the word “novelistic.” Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion.

They are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Beethoven’s music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual’s life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.

It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences… but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.”

Milan Kundera