Lang Leav

Love is a game of tic-tac-toe,constantly waitingfor the next x or o.

Shrinking in a corner,pressed into the wall;do they know I'm present,am I here at all?

Shrinking in a corner,pressed into the wall;do they know I'm present,am I here at all?Is there a written rule book,that tells you how to be__ll the right things to talk about__hat everyone has but me?Slowly I am withering__ flowered deprived of sun;longing to belong to__omewhere or someone.

The scatterbrain,is a little like,the patter of rain.Neither here,nor there,but everywhere.

I have always thought of memories as fragments, like colored glass shards in a kaleidoscope. It is the source of great beauty in our lives, yet the cause of such heartache. It remains the bridge between our past and present - it gives weight and dimension to our very existence.

Her heart is played like well worn stringsIn her eyes the sadness singsOf one who was destined of better things

Here are the things I want for you -I want you to be happy. I want someone else to know the warmth of your smile, to feel the way I did when I was in your presence.I want you to know how happy you once made me and though you really did hurt me, in the end, I was better for it. I don't know if what we had was love, but if it wasn't, I hope to never fall in love. Because of you, I know I am too fragile to bear it.I want you to remember my lips beneath your fingers and how you told me things you never told another soul. I want you to know that I have kept sacred, everything you had entrusted in me and I always will.Finally, I want you to know how sorry I am for pushing you away when I had only meant to bring you closer. And if I ever felt like home to you, it was because you were safe with me. - I want you to know that most of all.

Had I known, I would not have left you,alone beneath those stars,on the night when I last saw you,not knowing it was the last.

When did you stop caring? he asked.When did you start noticing? she replied.

Your first love isn't the first person you give your heart to- it's the first one who beaks it.

It was from a very young age that I fell in love with this wonderful artifact--the turn of the first page is almost like a sacred ritual to me. Whenever I walk into a library, it is never without some degree of reverence.

Anything and everything, the two almost the same--everything says, have it all; anything, one to claim.

...but how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way--has an almost hypnotic effect.

I did not know that it was love until I knew.

For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.

One day you will be nostalgic for today.

Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future.