I don’t believe he deserves the thousands of poems I’ve written about him, but life doesn’t follow rules. We do things for people who don’t necessarily deserve it. But we liked it, we loved it and fell in love enough to write about it.
Saving you was worth losing what we might’ve had.
A penny for my thoughts, oh no, I’ll sell them for a dollar
They’re worth so much more after I’m a goner
And maybe then you’ll hear the words I been singin’
Funny when you’re dead how people start listenin
Would ‘sorry’ have made any difference? Does it ever? It’s just a word. One word against a thousand actions.
I must indeed abide the Doom of Men whether I will or nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Numenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Elves say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive.
He grabbed my hand and that’s when I felt my heart beat for the very first time.
I miss the thrill of your self-destructive heart that melts in the sun like chocolate, bittersweet and incandescent.
Eventually I’ll stop writing about you and it’ll be bittersweet. Not because I’m not in love with you, but because I’ll just love you.
Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.
She clasped his hands and pressed her lips to them. ‘I want you to be proud of me,’ he repeated. She dropped his hands, feeling defeated.