I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we've suffered enough.

all night awake and restless, where shall i see her — in what dream?

and it seems i must always write you letters that i can never send.

people do not see you, they invent you and accuse you.

how many time had you said, 'if i just looked a little different, i'd be drowning in love?'

I love you. I shall die of this separation. I need you, to be able to live. Since I told you everything, since the moment when my eyes could no longer rest upon yours, I have felt as if all my veins were being opened, and my life’s blood slowly drained away.

this body that has been my refuge, my prison, my hospital, is my tomb.

living life at your own pace isn’t a waste of time.

my life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.

what if i slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense.

are you pretending to forget me, too?

Your childhood hunger is the one that never leaves you.

it was not the dying that mattered, it was the sadness, the wonder. the few good people crying in the night. the few good people.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing.

Please — consider me a dream.

poetry is merely the outcome of the mind translating the heart’s language.

I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.

You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for your own pleasure.