Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun from clever minds and bitter hearts.

And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.

Life is just a slide. Back and forth between loving and leaving, remembering and forgetting, holding on and letting go.

I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul, again.

Your presence only truly matters to people who feel your absence.