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I can hear your heartbeat in the rustle of the wind, but I am unable to listen out for your whisper.


I can detect a whiff of your sweet perfume as it dances past, but I am unable to smell the slightest trace of your gentle fragrance.


I can taste a tinge of the bitterness that you leave behind, but I am unable to savor anything that will give me a hint of your pain.


I can feel a sensation of falling into a bottomless pit, but I am unable to hold you close to me so that you'd remember that we're still alive.


No, I don't think you're hurting. I know so. And it eats into my heart like acid, corroding faster and faster as voices try to convince me that you'll never come back to me, even at the cost of your life. Only hope prevents complete disintegration.


I don't know where you are.


Even if I did, I'll be hesitant, but only because my presence threatens to hurt you further.


But remember the little rocket in your attic. The one that releases every tear you've cried into the atmosphere, falling like heavy raindrops in an autumn evening. Fire it when you need me.


And I'll be there with a rainbow in my hand.






That the love for a woman might cause even the greatest man to stop short on his paramount crusade, sign a disadvantageous ceasefire with the enemy, and in so doing halt his dreams to change the world for just one more day, just one more day, so he can restore her smile: that very symbol of his humanity and conviction of his absolute dependence on God. -Valentino Casanova

The pleasures of love are pains that become desirable, where sweetness and torment blend, and so love is voluntary insanity, infernal paradise, and celestial hell - in short, harmony of opposite yearnings, sorrowful laughter, soft diamond. -Umberto Eco