Comet Love Quotes

You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets.

She wears trouble like a crown. If she ever falls in love, she’ll fall like a comet, burning the sky as she goes.

I loved her for so long. Our past trails behind us like a comet's tail, the future stretched out before us like the universe. Things happen. People get lost and love breaks.

It was a comet. The boy saw the comet and he felt as though his life had meaning. And when it went away, he waited his entire life for it to come back to him. It was more than just a comet because of what it brought to his life: direction, beauty, meaning. There are many who couldn't understand, and sometimes he walked among them. But even in his darkest hours, he knew in his heart that someday it would return to him, and his world would be whole again... And his belief in God and love and art would be re-awakened in his heart. The boy saw the comet and suddenly his life had meaning.

For you, a comet, under a blue sky, leaves trail of color, For you, a star, dreams of being able to kiss you, dream to hear your voice For you, full moon, keep vigil for you, my girl, keep vigil for you, my love.

I love you, Gretchen Lang. You are my reflection and my shadow and I will not let you go. We are bound together forever and ever! Until Halley’s Comet comes around again. I love you dearly and I love you queerly and no demon is bigger than this!

Love is like a unique comet that appears rarely in the sky shines as bright as a thousand stars and flies through your galaxy creating light during an eclipse.

You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present and into the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it. See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves. After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm. That’s what I believe. The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another. It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know it’s happening until one day you feel you’ve lost something but you’re not sure what it is. It’s like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you “sir.” It just happens. These memories of who I was and where I lived are important to me. They make up a large part of who I’m going to be when my journey winds down. I need the memory of magic if I am ever going to conjure magic again. I need to know and remember, and I want to tell you.

It was always easier for me to show love than to say it. The word reminded me of pralines: small, precious, almost unbearable sweet. I would light up in his presence; I felt like a sun in the constellation of his embrace. But trying to put what I felt for him into words diminished it somehow, like pinning a butterfly under glass, or videotaping a comet.

Here is my mother, with wings instead of hands, and feathers instead of hair. Here is my mother, the reddest of brilliant reds, the color of my love and my fear, all of my fiercest feelings trailing after her in the sky like the tail of a comet.

There are people in our lives whom we love, and lose, and unfailingly long for. They orbit our hearts like Halley’s Comet, crossing into our universe only once, or if we are lucky, twice in a lifetime.

There are people in our lives whom we love, and lose, and forever long for. They orbit our hearts like Halley's Comet, crossing into our universe only once, or if we're lucky, twice in a lifetime. And when they do, they affect our gravity.

I Name you Echthroi. I Name you Meg. I Name you Calvin. I Name you Mr. Jenkins. I Name you Proginoskes. I fill you with Naming. Be! Be, butterfly and behemoth, be galaxy and grasshopper, star and sparrow, you matter, you are, be! Be caterpillar and comet, Be porcupine and planet, sea sand and solar system, sing with us, dance with us, rejoice with us, for the glory of creation, seagulls and seraphim angle worms and angel host, chrysanthemum and cherubim. (O cherubim.) Be! Sing for the glory of the living and the loving the flaming of creation sing with us dance with us be with us. Be!" - Madeleine L'Engle, A Wind in the Door

A girl like that, Grandad said, perfumes herself with ozone and metal filings. She wears trouble like a crown. If she ever falls in love, she'll fall like a comet, burning the sky as she goes.

That night as I slept, I dreamed of brown eyes that re- minded me of the cusp of autumn, with flecks of deep brown mixed with lighter hues.

Each of us is born to follow a star, be it bright and shining or dark and fated. Sometimes the path of these stars will cross, bringing love or hatred. However, if you look up at the skies on a clear night, out of all the countless lights that twinkle and shine, there will come one. That star will be seen in a blaze, burning a path of light across the roof of the earth, a great comet.

I lower the visor against the sinking sun. A ray catches a crack in the windshield and illuminates it, a tiny comet. I've always loved when the light finds the broken spots in the world and makes them beautiful.

At such times I feel I could die for love of her, my little stranger, my heart swelling dangerously so that the only release is to run too, my red coat flapping around my shoulders like wings, my hair a comet’s tail in the patchy blue sky.

The bullet is already in the brain; it won’t be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet’s tail of memory and hope and talent and love into the marble hall of commerce.

Sometimes people rise above their past, sometimes not. And sometimes the people you least expect it from—like Raylan and my father—have a way of surprising you in the end.

When I dream, it’s always of you.

NEUTRALITY, BOREDOM become worse sins than murder, worse than illicit love affairs,” she told her Smith College students in 1958. “BE RIGHT OR WRONG, don’t be indifferent, don’t be NOTHING.

The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang. In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over. Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms. When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare.

Sometimes people rise above their past, sometimes not. And sometimes the people you least expect it from—like Raylan and my father— have a way of surprising you in the end.

Anything to evade the life not lived, the poem not written, the love not realized.

My name is Cassandra Temperance Steel, I said to the beautiful imaginary Death Angel, as if my name wasn’t already on her Santa Claus-like list of souls to collect that evening. Spare me.

As if she had a magnetic force around her, I felt I was being caught up in the twisting vortex of her complex being, heading for collision like a comet being drawn into her unstable atmosphere.

Because our lungs regularly deal with carbon dioxide, they see nothing wrong with absorbing its cousin, SiO2, which can be fatal. Many dinosaurs might have died this way when a metropolis-sized asteroid or comet struck the earth 65 million years ago.

The next day, I’d be going home. Little did I know that, as I slept, the universe was already conspiring, like a table full of gossiping women, to help nudge me in the right direction to- ward my fate... or to my death.

At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.” In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over. Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms. When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare

There are people who bring joy to our lives, but who fail to make us happy. They are the people for the moment. Never rely on their love because it is not sustainable. Their love is alike a comet that illuminates the sky, but then fades away because it lacks the sustainable energy of the sun.

I nee to reason for a plague, ... As far as I know no comets or eclipses have been forecast, and our sins are not great enough for God to be concerned with us.

I guess sometimes forever is a lot shorter than you think it's going to be.

If you like comets, you should like fallen angels. The fallen angels were the ones unafraid to love, unafraid to fall, ready to burn.

There is none other like me. There is none other like her. We are unbelievable, impossible. I fly as high as the Heavens which cast me out. I have run out my comet's course: she is the world, I have sought out. Round her I have cast the loop of my orbit, and am held fast and safe; she is my Sea of Tranquility, my Milky Way, bearded with Berenice's Hair. I am a new constellation, pegged out in the sky. I am joy. Complete. For ever.

Bosnia is known as the powder keg of Yugoslavia, which itself is known as the powder keg of the Balkans, which in turn is reputed to be the powder keg of Europe. I would like to lengthen the list a bit by noting that Slobodan Milosevic was the powder keg of Bosnia. He is also one of the most extraordinary men you could hope to meet in your lifetime, a Halley's Comet of dictators, appearing once or twice a century. p. 199

Girls like her, my grandfather once warned me, girls like her turn into women with eyes like bullet holes and mouths made of knives. They are always restless. They are always hungry. They are bad news. They will drink you down like a shot of whisky. Falling in love with them is like falling down a flight of stairs. What no one told me, with all those warnings, is that even after you’ve fallen, even after you know how painful it is, you’d still get in line to do it again. A girl like that, Grandad said, perfumes herself with ozone and metal filings. She wears trouble like a crown. If she ever falls in love, she’ll fall like a comet, burning the sky as she goes. She was the epic crush of my childhood. She was the tragedy that made me look inside myself and see my corrupt heart. She was my sin and my salvation, come back from the grave to change me forever. Again. Back then, when she sat on my bed and told me she loved me, I wanted her as much as I have ever wanted anything. There are no words for how much I will miss her, but I try to kiss her so that she’ll know. I try to kiss her to tell her the whole story of my love, the way I dreamed of her when she was dead, the way that every other girl seemed like a mirror that showed me her face. The way my skin ached for her. The way that kissing her made me feel like I was drowning and like I was being saved all at the same time. I hope she can taste all that, bittersweet, on my tongue.

Cassie, if you’d known back then that this is where our paths would lead us... that I would get sick... would you have still chosen to be with me?” Did he seriously not know the answer? How much I loved him? “Xuan, I do choose this path, every night, in my dreams. I cannot imagine my life any differently.

Fancy that! What fun! Coming all this way just to see me!" "Well -- we didn't exactly," began Moomintroll, clambering ashore. "Never mind!" answered Snufkin. "The main thing is that you're here. You'll stay the night, won't you?" "We should love to," said Moomintroll. "We haven't seen a soul since we left home, and that was ages ago. Why in the world do you live here in this desert?" "I'm a tramp, and I live all over the place," answered Snufkin. "I wander about, and when I find a place that I like I put up my tent and play my mouth-organ.

the tail of a comet can extend millionsof miles into space, always in the opposite direction of the sun, blown by the solar breeze. A comets tail is the closet thing to nothing that anything can be. I love that. The closest thing to nothing.

Xuan and I had decided to take a trip together in honor of our one-thousand-day anniversary. We ate Korean barbecue, shared a decadent cake, and then drove three and a half hours to Yosemite. I’d never heard of such an occasion. But in Seoul, where Ji-Hoon was born and raised, there was almost a monthly holiday devoted to romance. We wore similar out- fits, which Xuan said was common for couples in Asian countries. Three years was a big deal, especially when we didn’t know how many more we’d have.

I looked at his hand clasping mine. Three years ago, on October 15, 2016, the brilliant blue blaze of the comet had crossed the vastness of our world in Colombia. I could see it, almost as if we were back there, standing on the roof of the dorms as we looked over the city together. We didn’t know it then, but our life together was just beginning.

The spinner of my story set me on a collision course that began the night I walked into the Red Iguana, and it was sealed after escaping death’s clutches the day of the comet, but none of those fateful events would have happened if I hadn’t fallen in love with science. Just like in the movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I believe a series of events resulted in leading me to find my soulmate.

A woman bathed in gold came out and took a seat at a piano keyboard. Behind her a second woman, dressed in similar fashion, came to sit nearby with her violin. The pianist’s fingers began to dance across the keyboard, giving it a voice. Her hands were a work of art, speaking a language that predated words.

The answer to why the equation of 1 + 1 + 1 = 0 was that Raylan didn’t want the real me. He only thought he did, and therefore the solution to the problem ended up being a simple subtraction equation. And now Raylan wants me to marry him? Holy Saints, what was he thinking? After all, I knew I certainly wasn’t marriage- able material. And deep down he had to know that too if he decided to sleep with someone else.

The bullet is already in the brain; it won't be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet's tail of memory and hope and talent and love into the marble hall of commerce. That can't be helped. But for now Anders can still make time

Ethanol plus carbon dioxide was like a demon spawn pounding against the frontal lobes of my head from the previous night at the bar. Somewhere in the city there was a church bell ringing, and—oh, not a bell. That was my phone. My head pounded and I felt dizzy, like I was spinning in circles on a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Slowly, I opened an eye to try and find my cell phone. I groaned as I reached for the blue- and-silver-plated device on my nightstand. The spins from al- cohol sucked.

You need only one taste of madness, and the timeless journey can be spent in thoughts that follow behind like the fiery tail of a comet. And this glowing chaos, the soul will carry under the linings of its peace, to weave beautiful memories with.

—Me has condenado a vivir atado a ti. —Christian... —musité con voz rota. —Vayas donde vayas, Lena, llevas una parte muy importante de mí contigo y yo no puedo vivir sin ella. Has cambiado todo mi mundo. Así que si vas a dejarme más vale que sea porque no me amas como yo te amo a ti, porque como sea por protegerme estarás cayendo en el mayor error que podrías cometer. Si te vas, acabarás con mi vida de una forma más cruel y despiadada de lo que podría hacerlo cualquier guardián esta noche.

To the skeptics, perhaps the events that are to follow were just a coincidence and nothing more than a series of random accidents that led me to where I am today. But to the lovers and poets and dreamers, perhaps you might agree that the story about to unfold is something more. You might even agree that there are times when coincidences are so powerful that they don’t really seem like coincidences anymore. Times when you come across events that seem too strange, or too strong, to be anything other than Fate—a grand design that incorporates everything from the career paths we take, the friends we meet along the way, and the partners we choose to spend our lives with. Times like these make you question that maybe nothing in this world happens by accident. Maybe everything really does happen for a reason, as some prewritten destiny slowly takes shape and shoves you down a path—or in my case, a mountain side.

It’s the anniversary of the first day I realized I was madly in love with you. That night, we went to your friend’s Halloween party. I remember the black dress you wore. You had feathery black angel wings attached to your back and glitter all over your body like you were a fairy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” “I dressed as a fallen angel that year.” “You were my angel. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Xuan’s movements were fluid and effortless, and I followed his lead with ease. The world around us faded away, and for a few precious moments, it was just the two of us, lost in the music in a peaceful quiet. I prayed that God would look down on us and see the beauty of our existence, and the trueness of our love. I prayed that He would decide to spare Xuan and leave us alone for many years. I prayed for a miracle.

People don’t have anniversaries for the day they fall in love.” “They should. I remember every day and every moment that was special with you. Love is fragile... a gift. And when you love someone, you should be the caretaker of their heart.” “Loving you has been the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. You know that, right?” Xuan nodded and then pulled me close to him as if to reply. The feel of his lips on my neck was like an electric shock, making the little hairs stand. “Stay still or I’ll ruin your makeup,” he whispered in my ear. “I don’t mind being fashionably late,” I suggested.

The first time I looked into a microscope at seaweed and pond water micro- organisms, there was something inside me that shifted—like the way people describe falling in love. And if I hadn’t been given the opportunity to cut into a cow’s eyeball at the age of fifteen, maybe I would have never majored in science, or gone on the semester study abroad trip to Colombia with the UC Santa Cruz biology department. So yes, I blamed seaweed and pond water microorganisms, a cow’s eyeball, and my teachers, the real culprits, for starting me down this path. Just like accident investigators put together a timeline, I call this the causation analysis of my love life.

But it was always easier for me to show love than to say it. The word reminded me of pralines: small, precious, almost unbearably sweet. I would light up in his presence; I felt like a sun in the constellation of his embrace. But trying to put what I felt for him into words diminished it somehow, like pinning a butterfly under glass, or videotaping a comet.

Maybe the only things worth having are the things that scare you the most

Real love doesn't come around often. Hell, sometimes it never comes around at all. But when it does ... it's worth waiting for. Trust me.

I lust for him, and in my mind I am ripped to bits by the words he welds and wields...and glory in the temporary sun of his ruthless force.

She was determined to live as fully as possible—to write, to travel, to cook, to draw, to love as much and as often as she could. She was, in the words of a close friend, “operatic” in her desires, a “Renaissance woman” molded as much by Romantic sublimity as New England stoicism.5 She was as fluent in Nietzsche as she was in Emerson; as much in thrall to Yeats’s gongs and gyres as Frost’s silences and snow.

We continued dancing as a swift gale wheeled through the hills of Santa Cruz. Xuan leaned down to whisper into my ear, his lips lightly brushing the helix. “Once upon a time there was a boy, and he loved a girl very much. He was sad because he didn’t think the girl noticed him. Until one day the uni- verse intervened and a beautiful comet brought them together after a tragic accident occurred that day. The boy and the girl found comfort and friendship in each other that night. And something new and extraordinary began to blossom under the heavens, something that would burn with such bright- ness that all the stars would be in awe. And the boy fell madly in love with the girl and promised to always find her, in this life and the next.” “That’s my favorite story.” Xuan smiled. “It’s the best one I’ve ever told, Ms. Steel.

To Bury A Star" "I pulled a star from the darkest corner of night and hid it within my bosom. When the Earth beneath my feet gave way, moist and fertile, I knelt to the ground and cupped the radiant treasure in my hands. In a shallow hole I buried it—layer upon layer of black dirt tossed upon the spot until it no longer glowed. This I did for you, my love. Now, come with me and see what has been born from a single wishing star. Hand in hand we walk to the same spot of dirt to find the black and fertile soil sucked dry, the color blanched as pale as desert sands. Look how a ring of white fire jumps and dances around the buried starling! We catch our breath, beholding what has sprouted from this magical seed. The illusion of twisted branches glowing in the darkness like tails of comets soaring skyward—tails of baby stars that shoot like fireworks from that ring of fire. Up, up, up they fly to light a neglected corner of the night. From a single wishing star a thousand more have been born. They are for you, my love—a thousand dreams destined to come true.

Las personas que son de suyo difíciles de amar, su continua exigencia de ser amadas, como si fuera un derecho, su manifiesta conciencia de ser objeto de un trato injusto, sus reproches, sea con estridentes gritos o con quejas solamente implícitas en cada mirada o en cada gesto de resentida autocompasión, provocan en nosotros un sentimiento de culpa —esa es su intención— por una falta que no podíamos evitar y que no podemos dejar de cometer.

There are people in our lives whom we love, and lose, and forever long for. They orbit our hearts like Halley’s Comet, crossing into our universe only once, or if we’re lucky, twice in a lifetime. And when they do, they affect our gravity.

For love doesn’t stand alone, nor can it, but trails like a blazing comet, bringing with it other shining goods—forgiveness, kindness, tolerance, fairness, companionability and friendship, all bound to the love which is at the heart of Jesus’s message.

Okay," Adam began, "Now concentrate! This was a real person. White suit!" "Colonel Sanders!" Lily replied quickly. "Colonel Sanders? I said it was a real person, not a logo for a chicken joint!" "He was a real person! If you don't believe me look it up!" "Whatever! Not Colonel Sanders though. Humor!" he said urgently. "Steve Martin!" She clapped her hands with joy, obviously believing that they had finally gotten one right. "No, uh..." He searched for another clue. "Wait! White suit and humor but not Steve Martin?" She looked crushed. "I just said no!" He yelled! "Hannibal!" "Um, uh, Dumbo..." she said with a deeply pensive expression. "Dumbo?! What the fuck?!" "Hannibal! Elephants! And before you say it he was real, too, you schmuck!" "Guess again goddamnit!" "Anthony Hopkins!" Adam threw down the card and looked like he was going to cry. "Halley's Comet!" he growled. "Halley's Comet?! What in the hell do you mean Halley's Comet!" "Time!" Braden informed them gleefully, wiping tears of laughter out of his eyes. "Mark Twain! You're an author Christ's sake!" Adam bit out. "Oh, right! He was from Hannibal, Missouri! What in the hell did Halley's Comet have to do with Mark Twain?!" "It appeared on the day he was born and the day he died! Duh huh!" Adam said. "This isn't Trivial fucking Pursuit!" Lily shot back. "Why didn't you say Mississippi or riverboat or frog jumping contest or something besides Halley's Motherfucking Comet?!" "Because they're all forbidden motherfucking words! Miss 'like a human'!" he yelled.

Young and beautiful crowds filled the myriad bars and clubs in El Poblado, in the heart of Medellín. Amid the hypnotic sound of Latin music, vibrant colors swayed back and forth across a tiny dance floor as I walked into the Iguana Roja, or Red Iguana, salsa club.

I’m sorry,” he says. No two words were ever truer. Still, she says nothing. Once a shield, now her taciturnity is brandished like a blade, carving away his sanity. She’s the flaw in the paragon of life—the reason angels choose to dive to their downfalls in fiery comets of stardust.

Treatment was not what Xuan wanted, and his answer only made me feel small and guilty. His words should have comforted me. That he would try, for me. But they didn’t. Xuan did love me enough to get treatment. But maybe I should have loved him enough to respect and accept his decision.

I want you to know I have never loved anyone like I love you. More than Darcy loved Elizabeth or Heathcliff loved Cathy. I just don’t want to make you a widow.” “I never really understood why Brontë is considered to be a romance writer. We were required to read Wuthering Heights in high school and I always believed that her novel showcased the bleakest aspects of human nature. The story provided readers with a small yet unforgettable glimpse into the depths of human cruelty. Personally, I never considered the story romantic because the love shared between Cathy and Heathcliff was fatal, not just for themselves but for those around them. Their souls were incompatible, and they were a toxic pairing. Despite their love, passion, jealousy, and desire for connection, they were unable to recognize this fact.” “I was never a fan of Victorian romance novels.” “It was never one of my favorites. It’s often viewed as one of the great romance novels of all time, but I think it represents something darker: the fatal, selfish side of love, obsession, and abuse. To this day, I have not encountered a more accurate depiction of how love can become selfish.” “Why do you say that?” Xuan asked. “Because I think you have to love someone in the way that I love you to truly understand what love means... and to understand how wrong the story is. My soul and yours are the same in a way that Catherine and Heathcliff’s could never be. Widow or not, I will never stop loving you, Xuan. You have mesmerized me. My very soul has been entangled completely by you over these past three years. If Brontë or Austen could write the greatest love story of all time they’d write our story. And whether you marry me or not, how I feel about you will never change.

There are people in our lives whom we love, and lose, and forever long for. They orbit our hearts like Halley’s Comet, crossing into our universe only once, or if we’re lucky, twice in a lifetime. And when they do, they affect our gravity.” He said, “You know what I mean? These people are special.

To his Own Beloved Self The Author Dedicates These Lines" Six. Ponderous. The chimes of a clock. “Render unto Caesar ... render unto God...” But where’s someone like me to dock? Where’11 I find a lair? Were I like the ocean of oceans little, on the tiptoes of waves I’d rise, I’d strain, a tide, to caress the moon. Where to find someone to love of my size, the sky too small for her to fit in? Were I poor as a multimillionaire, it’d still be tough. What’s money for the soul? – thief insatiable. The gold of all the Californias isn’t enough for my desires’ riotous horde. I wish I were tongue-tied, like Dante or Petrarch, able to fire a woman’s heart, reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages! My words and my love form a triumphal arch: through it, in all their splendour, leaving no trace, will pass the inamoratas of all the ages! Were I as quiet as thunder, how I’d wail and whine! One groan of mine would start the world’s crumbling cloister shivering. And if I’d end up by roaring with all of its power of lungs and more – the comets, distressed, would wring their hands and from the sky’s roof leap in a fever. If I were dim as the sun, night I’d drill with the rays of my eyes, and also all by my lonesome, radiant self build up the earth’s shriveled bosom. On I’ll pass, dragging my huge love behind me. On what feverish night, deliria-ridden, by what Goliaths was I begot – I, so big and by no one needed?

The Romans and Greeks believed that the appearance of comets, meteors, and meteor showers was portentous. They were signs that something good or bad had happened... or was about to happen. For me, that was the moment I fell in love with Xuan. That was the promise of a future filled with love... and beauty... and brilliance. That future began and ended with Xuan.

She watched Malachy curl his long fingers around a lock of Layla's straight hair, gently caressing it as he mused on the origins of stars. The young astronomer knew that in Aristotelian times the word 'comet' meant "the length of luminous hair," but the word eventually changed to signify the orbiting streak that sometimes, just sometimes, flies a little too close to the sun.

Cassie, you need to understand that he only agreed to undergo treatment because of you. He made this choice solely for you, and no one else. Despite being aware of the limited time he has left and the financial burden the treatment will impose on his family, he chose to stay by your side.” I knew, had known the moment he’d agree to undergo the treatment. I hated myself for being the cause of his pain. He continued to push. “Xuan is doing the cancer therapy stuff even though he didn’t want to. He loves you that much. And because you asked him to do this, he is. And one day, because of love, you will stand by Xuan until the end and you’ll have to watch him die. And because he loved you, you will eventually have to let him go, because that’s what he would want.

In that instant, I even forgot my own name, until I heard it being whispered from his lips. “Cassie,” he said, pulling away. I wanted this—dreamed of it, but now that it was happen- ing, I didn’t know how I’d ever want anything else. I wanted more. I wanted him. As he held my gaze, I realized that I had never felt more alive. And I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning of our journey together.

I bent down and, and as our lips came together, I understood why people made such a big deal about this. First there was the novelty of it: the weird sensation of my lips pressed against hers, and the warm air sighing in and out of our noses, and the mysterious dark hollows behind our teeth. After that came the disappearing. The walls of the room fell away, the ceiling vanished, and we floated up, up to the stars, suspended in a clear crystal bubble... Our kiss contained us, it contained all of our hopes and fears and wants, and even more. It contained the world: Indians praying to painted gods, and skinny Chinese men pedaling their bicycles to work, and the glossy black water of a bayou at night, where, above it in a soft yellow room, a boy kissed a girl for the very first time while the silver-and-gold sparks of a comet rained down on them......

DEATH IS ONE OF THE MOST MOVING & TROUBLING EXPERIENCES OF LIFE: DEATH-IN-LIFE IS ONE OF THE MOST TERRIBLE STATES OF EXISTENCE: NEUTRALITY, BOREDOM become worse sins than murder, worse than illicit love affairs: BE RIGHT OR WRONG, don’t be indifferent, don’t be NOTHING . . . MANY POETS, MANY READERS live by poetry as people have lived by religion: BOTH ARE RITUALS, PATTERNS, [that give] special meaning to the most profound experiences of human life.

And for however long you do not come, I’ll wait on the brink of flights, of dreams, of comet trails, motionless. Because I know that neither wings, nor wheels nor sails can travel to where I once was. They have all gone astray. Because I know that to reach where I was can only be with you, be through you. —Pedro Salinas, from “The Voice I Owe to You,” Memory in My Hands: The Love Poetry of Pedro Salinas (Peter Lang Inc., International Academic Publishers, 2009)

Cassie, if I do treatment, I’m most likely going to be too sick to want to do any of those things. It may only prolong my life for a short time. And leaving my parents with an enormous amount of debt because of medical bills is not what I want. How can I do that to them?” “They love you, Xuan. There’s no price tag on your life.” “What would you do if you were me?” “I would fight!” I shouted. “I’ve been trying to accept my fate, and I think you need to as well.

Amanda handed me a full shot glass. “Amanda, Cassie’s had a lot to drink already tonight, don’t you think?” Xuan was like a protective lion, slightly reminding me of my favorite vampire character. “Don’t worry, Cassie’s fine!” “No, she isn’t.” “Just one more,” pushed Amanda. Xuan took the shot meant for me and tipped it back before picking up his own and finishing it. “Amanda, that’s it. No more. Cassie already looks like she’s going to be sick.” Was he upset... on my behalf?

Love's Retreat" Soul mates of a depth entwined are kindred flames beyond the find who shall be love's caress to know past the flight of Cupid's bow And borrowed from a sonnet's hold of court and spark beyond the fold truth shall be a love divine to wrap around and then entwine For higher love does rise in form with every tenderness to warm past a depth beyond the sea which sanctions kindred flames to be And hearts of many start to sing in sweet refrain as lovers bring a breaking dawn beyond the night from which two hearts begin their flight Soul mates shall forever be the rose within their eyes to see with twin flames reaching higher chord in loving song so much adored For when they merge as sacred one life is spun as comets run and from each kiss of gesture felt heartfelt candles start to melt Borrowed from each touch to own love surmounts the all alone as starlight rainbows cast a gift among the cosmic river drift And there amid a starry night soul mates gather past delight forming higher venture sweet lost in Cupid's love retreat. A V

As I pondered the dynamics of love, Newton’s laws and equations came to mind. It was an unusual connection, but suddenly the concept of love made sense through the lens of physics. It occurred to me that when two people connect, their interactions are subject to the same fundamental laws that govern physical objects. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, as described by Newton’s Third Law of Motion. This was the basis of physics, and human behavior seemed to follow the same pattern. If one person makes a choice, the other will respond with an equal and opposite reaction.

To transform a grimace into a sound Sounds impossible, yet it is possible To transform a vision into music, To go outside an enslaved personality, To become impersonal by transforming Into sand, into water, into light, To feel the air and breathe the air By becoming the air, become A bird, the first cell, the first man, Become a wandering comet, A dying star, a newborn cluster of stars And hear the melody of galaxies, Love making of black stars, Sense the hellish or heavenly nature of quasars, Be in everything and come back To a minuscule particle of personality To find out how great all is.

Ode to the Beloved’s Hips" Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered percussion in the morning—are the morning. Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me— I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna. How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur. My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena, ecstatic devourer. O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped the amber—fast honey—from their openness— Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet- dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond— to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue— come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips, I am—strummed-song and succubus. They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book— the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel. Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays, Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray. Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera. Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle: What do I see? Hips: Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone. Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread, wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be: Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel. Bone basin bone throne bone lamp. Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery— slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit, laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God, I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth for pear upon apple upon fig. More than all that are your hips. They are a city. They are Kingdom— Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire— thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth. Beloved, your hips are the war. At night your legs, love, are boulevards leading me beggared and hungry to your candy house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late and the tables have been cleared, in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake. O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve, a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon, let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming for your dark matter. Along las calles de tus muslos I wander— follow the parade of pulse like a drum line— descend into your Plaza del Toros— hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros. Your arched hips—ay, mi torera. Down the long corridor, your wet walls lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed. I am the animal born to rush your rich red muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan, a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre Manolete—press and part you like a wound— make the crowd pounding in the grandstand of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.

Everyone expected me to fall apart after our breakup. Instead I just felt empty. I honestly couldn’t stand their pity. So I came here to get away—and heal.” “I bet you’re really angry with him. You guys were together for a long time.” “I was. But the more I think about it and analyze it, it seems like something bigger—like a phantom dark energy was repelling us, like bug spray. I don’t think we were ever meant to be together, and the acceleration of the Big Rip just in- creased over time. I think it was bound to happen eventually, I just wish it didn’t end the way it did.” “That sounds an awful lot like Fate.” “No,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s just science.

Christmas Sonnet Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, Oh, what fun it is to give our own life away! Saint Nicholas did his part, so did Chris himself, Now it's time for us to be the happiness gateway. Dashing through the alleys devoid of lights, Holding up high as beacon, our own heart, Breaking ourselves to pieces and burning to ashes, We'll ensure no one lacks the love a human deserves. We are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen and Comet, We are Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. We are also modern day Nick, Chris and Eckhart, By our love and oneness let the world be engulfed! Twelve days ain't enough to celebrate Christmas. As humans we must live each day helping others.

We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves. After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm. That’s what I believe. The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another. It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know it’s happening until one day you feel you’ve lost something but you’re not sure what it is. It’s like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you “sir.” It just happens.

The ion and dust tails seemed to be pointing away from the crackling fire of the sun. Looking more closely, one tail was gray mixed with yellow and white and the second was blue fading into teal. The color change was softer than melting wax. A bright green coma glowed around the center. I felt as though I was seeing magic for the first time as the warmth from our great star heated up the comet, causing it to spew dust and gasses into a giant glowing head larger than most planets. The comet’s magnificence and grandeur stirred me, much like a transcendent piece of music that envelops one’s soul. “I’ve never seen a comet before,” I confessed, my voice filled with a mix of wonder and emotion. I could feel a tear form in my eye. I blinked it away. Bello, pulchram, bela, hermoso, yafah, ómorfi, Meilì. I could express the concept of beauty in numerous languages, but none of them truly captured the essence of my feelings as I gazed at the comet. It was a sight of indescribable beauty, as if musical notes had been sketched across the canvas of the night sky. I would never forget the comet—similar to Xuan, exciting, rare, and stunning. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Xuan whispered. I looked at Xuan, but instead of looking at the sky, Xuan was staring at me. He stood, his hands jammed into his pockets, as he quickly turned his gaze to wander over the peaceful metropolis.

Even if we do not suffer from religious mania, unrequited love, loneliness or jealousy, most readers can identify with Burton’s account of information overload over three centuries before the invention of the internet, an extraordinary broadside which is worth quoting in full: I hear new news every day, and those ordinary rumours of war, plagues, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres, meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, apparitions, of towns taken cities besieged in France, Germany, Turkey, Persia, Poland &c. daily musters and preparations, and such like, which these tempestuous times afford, battles fought, so many men slain, monomachies, shipwrecks, piracies, and sea-fights, peace, leagues, stratagems, and fresh alarms. A vast confusion of vows, wishes, actions, edicts, petitions, lawsuits, pleas, laws, proclamations, complaints, grievances, are daily brought to our ears. New books every day, pamphlets, currantoes, stories, whole catalogues of volumes of all sorts, new paradoxes, opinions, schisms, heresies, controversies in philosophy, religion &c. Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees, embassies, tilts and tournaments, trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays; then again, as in a new shifted scene, treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, deaths of Princes, new discoveries, expeditions; now comical then tragical matters. To-day we hear of new Lords and officers created, to-morrow of some great men deposed, and then again of fresh honours conferred; one is let loose, another imprisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh; he thrives, his neighbour turns bankrupt; now plenty, then again dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs, weeps &c. Thus I daily hear, and such like, both private and public news.37 And that way, Burton reminds us, that way madness lies…

I, Prayer (A Poem of Magnitudes and Vectors) I, Prayer, know no hour. No season, no day, no month nor year. No boundary, no barrier or limitation–no blockade hinders Me. There is no border or wall I cannot breach. I move inexorably forward; distance holds Me not. I span the cosmos in the twinkling of an eye. I knowest it all. I am the most powerful force in the Universe. Who then is My equal? Canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook? None is so fierce that dare stir him up. Surely, I may’st with but a Word. Who then is able to stand before Me? I am the wind, the earth, the metal. I am the very empyrean vault of Heaven Herself. I span the known and the unknown beyond Eternity’s farthest of edges. And whatsoever under Her wings is Mine. I am a gentle stream, a fiery wrath penetrating; wearing down mountains –the hardest and softest of substances. I am a trickling brook to fools of want lost in the deserts of their own desires. I am a Niagara to those who drink in well. I seep through cracks. I inundate. I level forests kindleth unto a single burning bush. My hand moves the Universe by the mind of a child. I withhold treasures solid from the secret stores to they who would wrench at nothing. I do not sleep or eat, feel not fatigue, nor hunger. I do not feel the cold, nor rain or wind. I transcend the heat of the summer’s day. I commune. I petition. I intercede. My time is impeccable, by it worlds and destinies turn. I direct the fates of nations and humankind. My Words are Iron eternaled—rust not they away. No castle keep, nor towers of beaten brass, Nor the dankest of dungeon helks, Nor adamantine links of hand-wrought steel Can contain My Spirit–I shan’t turn back. The race is ne’er to the swift, nor battle to the strong, nor wisdom to the wise or wealth to the rich. For skills and wisdom, I give to the sons of man. I take wisdom and skills from the sons of man for they are ever Mine. Blessed is the one who finds it so, for in humility comes honor, For those who have fallen on the battlefield for My Name’s sake, I reach down to lift them up from On High. I am a rose with the thorn. I am the clawing Lion that pads her children. My kisses wound those whom I Love. My kisses are faithful. No occasion, moment in time, instances, epochs, ages or eras hold Me back. Time–past, present and future is to Me irrelevant. I span the millennia. I am the ever-present Now. My foolishness is wiser than man’s My weakness stronger than man’s. I am subtle to the point of formlessness yet formed. I have no discernible shape, no place into which the enemy may sink their claws. I AM wisdom and in length of days knowledge. Strength is Mine and counsel, and understanding. I break. I build. By Me, kings rise and fall. The weak are given strength; wisdom to those who seek and foolishness to both fooler and fool alike. I lead the crafty through their deceit. I set straight paths for those who will walk them. I am He who gives speech and sight - and confounds and removes them. When I cut, straight and true is my cut. I strike without fault. I am the razored edge of high destiny. I have no enemy, nor friend. My Zeal and Love and Mercy will not relent to track you down until you are spent– even unto the uttermost parts of the earth. I cull the proud and the weak out of the common herd. I hunt them in battles royale until their cries unto Heaven are heard. I break hearts–those whose are harder than granite. Beyond their atomic cores, I strike their atomic clock. Elect motions; not one more or less electron beyond electron’s orbit that has been ordained for you do I give–for His grace is sufficient for thee until He desires enough. Then I, Prayer, move on as a comet, Striking out of the black. I, His sword, kills to give Life. I am Living and Active, the Divider asunder of thoughts and intents. I Am the Light of Eternal Mind. And I, Prayer, AM Prayer Almighty.

At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.” In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over. Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms. When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely fact of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare

I am sorry my words sometimes frighten the fireflies from your dreams, I am sorry that battalions of doubt have pitched camp in your heart. It would be crazy to love you as much as I do. It is 3:03 and by now the whole universe is attracted to you so that I feel gobbled up like the ice in a comet. I am sorry the time is passing so slowly. I am sorry, birds, for not mentioning you again until the end. My fifth grade teacher said comets are angels. You can determine the exact makeup of a comet by spectrographic analysis. An X ray of this poem would reveal dark spots on its heart. It would reveal the smallest memories— my hand resting so gently on your hip that it requires great effort just to stay on this earth, how your legs seem to become part of your bicycle and you seem to fly into a world that lies beside this one.

My eyes dart from one end of the table to the other as if somewhere among the splinters, cracks, and thorns there's an answer written in the wood.

1. After dark, stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being—a Starman Or cosmic ace hovering, swaying, aching to make us see. And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure That someone was there squinting through the dust, Saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only To be wanted back badly enough? Would you go then, Even for a few nights, into that other life where you And that first she loved, blind to the future once, and happy? Would I put on my coat and return to the kitchen where my Mother and father sit waiting, dinner keeping warm on the stove? Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep Or charging through his veins. And he’ll never grow old, Just like the woman you lost, who will always be dark-haired And flush-faced, running toward an electronic screen That clocks the minutes, the miles left to go. Just like the life In which I’m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky Thinking one day I’ll touch the world with bare hands Even if it burns. 2. He leaves no tracks. Slips past, quick as a cat. That’s Bowie For you: the Pope of Pop, coy as Christ. Like a play Within a play, he’s trademarked twice. The hours Plink past like water from a window A/C. We sweat it out, Teach ourselves to wait. Silently, lazily, collapse happens. But not for Bowie. He cocks his head, grins that wicked grin. Time never stops, but does it end? And how many lives Before take-off, before we find ourselves Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold? The future isn’t what it used to be. Even Bowie thirsts For something good and cold. Jets blink across the sky Like migratory souls. 3. Bowie is among us. Right here In New York City. In a baseball cap And expensive jeans. Ducking into A deli. Flashing all those teeth At the doorman on his way back up. Or he’s hailing a taxi on Lafayette As the sky clouds over at dusk. He’s in no rush. Doesn’t feel The way you’d think he feels. Doesn’t strut or gloat. Tells jokes. I’ve lived here all these years And never seen him. Like not knowing A comet from a shooting star. But I’ll bet he burns bright, Dragging a tail of white-hot matter The way some of us track tissue Back from the toilet stall. He’s got The whole world under his foot, And we are small alongside, Though there are occasions When a man his size can meet Your eyes for just a blip of time And send a thought like SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE Straight to your mind. Bowie, I want to believe you. Want to feel Your will like the wind before rain. The kind everything simply obeys, Swept up in that hypnotic dance As if something with the power to do so Had looked its way and said: Go ahead.

There are people in our lives whom we love, and lose, and forever long for. They orbit our hearts like Halley’s Comet, crossing into our universe only once, or if we’re lucky, twice in a lifetime. And when they do, they affect our gravity.” He said, “You know what I mean?

Ode to Bees Multitude of bees! in and out of the crimson, the blue, the yellow, of the softest softness in the world; you tumble headlong into a corolla to conduct your business, and emerge wearing a golden suit and quantities of yellow boots. The waist, perfect, the abdomen striped with dark bars, the tiny, ever-busy head, the wings, newly made of water; you enter every sweet-scented window, open silken doors, penetrate the bridal chamber of the most fragrant love, discover a drop of diamond dew, and from every house you visit you remove honey, mysterious, rich and heavy honey, thick aroma, liquid, guttering light, until you return to your communal palace and on its gothic parapets deposit the product of flower and flight, the seraphic and secret nuptial sun! Multitude of bees! Sacred elevation of unity, seething schoolhouse. Buzzing, noisy workers process the nectar, swiftly exchanging drops of ambrosia; it is summer siesta in the green solitudes of Osorno. High above, the sun casts its spears into the snow, volcanoes glisten, land stretches endless as the sea, space is blue, but something trembles, it is the fiery, heart of summer, the honeyed heart multiplied, the buzzing bee, the crackling honeycomb of flight and gold! Bees, purest laborers, ogival workers fine, flashing proletariat, perfect, daring militia that in combat attack with suicidal sting; buzz, buzz above the earth's endowments, family of gold, multitude of the wind, shake the fire from the flowers, thirst from the stamens, the sharp, aromatic thread that stitches together the days, and propagate honey, passing over humid continents, the most distant islands of the western sky. Yes: let the wax erect green statues, let honey spill in infinite tongues, let the ocean be a beehive, the earth tower and tunic of flowers, and the world a waterfall, a comet's tail, a never-ending wealth of honeycombs! Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things. (Bulfinch; Illustrated edition, May 1, 1994)

It feels like forever, him and me.

That life wouldn’t get any easier as I got older. If anything, it would only get harder as I grew up to the realization, as he apparently had, that all our beliefs were built on a flimsy scaffolding of stories, and that happiness was nothing but a wish and love was only a lie.

That was the problem with expectations: they were good only as long as they lasted. Better not to expect anything at all. Better to join the cold-blooded, big-eyed creatures slithering in the mud at the bottom of the canal, animals that didn’t have to worry about love and hope and expectation. Because as soon as you grew two legs and learned to walk upright, you were pretty much doomed to a lifetime of disappointments.

I’d never thought it was possible for adults, parents like mine and Gabriella’s, to fall in and out of love like teenagers, at least not in any world that I knew. But what if they could? Then what?