Linden just wants to protect her, is what I want to say. She's all he has. I left him. I'm at arms reach, but I've left him.
I liked just being with you. I liked the way you breathed when you were asleep. I liked when you took the champagne glass from my hand. I liked how your fingers were always too long for your gloves.
Lovers are weapons, but love is a wound.
Living in a place like this, she must have learned how to see all the monsters that can hide a person.
Good night, sweetheart," he says. "Good bye, sweetheart," I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.
There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.
It isn’t a perfect place. There are no perfect places. But nobody cares about perfection when there are sand castles to build and kites to chase, children that are being born, old hearts that are giving in.
I think, in this strange world of beautiful things, there may be some humanity after all.
He gathers me up and I'm weightless before he sets me on the railing. He's the only thing keeping me from falling back, out of the reach of daylight. I'm not afraid of falling. I don't fear the sky beyond the train tracks like I did before. I can go anywhere just so long as it's with him.
The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.
You can try to please everyone and risk accomplishing nothing, or go for your dreams and risk pissing a few people off.
It's the silence I imagine in the rest of the world, the silence of an endless ocean and uninhabitable island, a silence that can be seen from space.
The seeds are tiny, unborn things, and I resent them. They'll be planted and they'll grow into exactly what they're meant to be.
He looks at me, and I don't know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But she's not here with us now, in this room. It's just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.
Things will get worse before they get better.
We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.
I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
It's quiet for a while, and then Rowan says; "We could talk now. We're alone out here. No walls." "There are always walls." I say.
When we're alive, life consumes us. But when we die, all of the color and the motion is gone so quickly, it's as though it can no longer stand to be wasted on us.
We destroy things with our curiosity. We shatter with our best intentions
But there’s no such thing as free. There are only different and more horrible ways to be enslaved.
Momentum,' She repeats. 'You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have to run.
It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
It's best to let her go," he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.
I want to make the world into something better so that he can be okay.
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