Posts tagged quote.

Someone who’ll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class’s heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.

Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.

Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.

Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.

Andy Weaver, A Little Love Poem

I know you’ll never love me but maybe you’ll stay for awhile.

Henry Rollins

Lately I’ve been spending a good part of nearly every day thinking about love. Romantic love. The kind of love that involves french kissing and mix tapes and spooning in New York City in the summer when it’s by most people’s standards too disgustingly humid to spoon. The kind of love you wanna bring home to your grandma and say, “Grandma, look at this love! Just look at this LOVE!” Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…….and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.

Andrea Gibson

You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known- and even that is an understatement.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Someone whose smallest movements amaze me: her hair falling over her eyes, the soft swell of her hips when she lies down, a deep sigh when she sleeps.

Someone who maps every ticklish part of my body and then uses her knowledge strictly for evil.

Someone who paints our bodies black and makes love with me under the stars.

Someone who burns through my chest like that first shot of scotch.

Someone whose tongue, if we’re kept apart too long, would nervously trace my face into the roof of her mouth.

Andy Weaver, A Little Love Poem

And if I blink my eyes enough, maybe I will wake up and you will still be there sleeping next to me.