My Pleasures Disappeared With My Vices.

Being In Love Means Being At The Mercy Of Someone's Childhood.

You Don't Stop Loving Someone Just Because You Hate Them.

If Jealousy Was The Vindaloo Of Love, I'd Imagined Her Tongue Burning, And Such A Fire Forcing Her To Spill Her Truth.

My Guess Is That She Is Uncomfortable In Such An Intransigent World But Is Unable To Live Accordingly To Her Own Desire.

And Silence, Like Darkness, Can Be Kind; It, Too, Is A Language.