“I’m so sorry, Holly. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I won’t live long enough to marry you.”
Your freckles beneath my fingers like Braille, speaking a language I never knew existed.
“They say everything in the universe is made of stardust—even you and me. We’ve got stars inside us, and sooner or later, we’ll find our way back home.”
—Benjamin Jastrow ; Paper Stars, pg. 95
They fell in love along the spine of a book, and eventually their breath became letters and their bodies became paragraphs and the dog-eared pages became unmade bed sheets and blankets. They folded and creased around each other until their very own story had been written.
You’re my confessional booth—I’m on one side of the lattice and I know you’re on the other. I talk a great deal and you stay quiet, but when you forgive me, it feels like God is forgiving me, too. I know you don’t believe in God, but that’s all right: you believe in me and I believe in you. We stick to what we know is real, and perhaps that’s for the better.
you are my greatest downfall: I loved you first…
I think we’re lost.
To our beloved land I’ll flee,
Our land of thought and soul,
Where I have roved so oft with thee,
Beyond the world’s control.
“What’s it like?”
He glanced over at her, almost surprised at the sudden sound. “Hm?”
“What is it like to die?” she asked slowly.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “You just stop breathing, you can’t think. You start getting cold and everyone around you moves in slow motion.”
“I want to die, sometimes,” she said.
This took him short, and his throat tightened. “Why?”
“Do you always need a reason?”
“I don’t know.”
don’t look back
And there we were, a small, tender young family, warmed by love and a pilot light
Just the thought that you all would be better off without me quite honestly terrifies me.
