I gave wrong people the right pieces of me.
I want to write a novel about silence. The things people don’t say.
Isolation offered its own form of companionship: the reliable silence of her rooms, the steadfast tranquility of the evenings. The promise that she would find things where she put them, that there would be no interruption, no surprise. It greeted her at the end of each day and lay still with her at night.
I want to write poems on your skin with my lips.
i think you are
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.