– Emily Bronte


“May you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you – haunt me then.”

Wuthering Heights

F. Scott Fitzgerald 


Things are sweeter when they’re lost. I know – because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot, and when I got it, it turned to dust in my hand.

The Beautiful and the Damned

– Pablo Neruda 


Los pájaros nocturnos picotean las primeras estrellas que centellean como mi alma cuando te amo. 

The birds of the night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

VII – Inclinado En Las Tardes (Leaning Into The Afternoons)

Beauty of the Stars

Original Poetry

“They’re beautiful,”
you whisper
as you stare up at the stars.
“They are,”
I reply
as my gaze falls on you.

Apologies of Love

Original Writing

I’m sorry that all of my words roll off my tongue in metaphors and my sentences string themselves together like needles and thread but I read too much poetry and over time, I have picked up the tiny habits. I’m sorry that I never stop talking until my letters have formed works of art and I’ve finished describing my thoughts and emotions in a way that nobody understands, but somehow they understand anyway. I’m sorry that it takes so long to get things done when I’m around because I spend half my time staring into the distance, wondering what the clouds would taste like, and how I would put that taste on paper, and you spend all your time snapping your fingers in front of my face as though that will scare the poetry out of my mind to slip onto the street and seep through the gutters where nobody will ever find it. My apologies could go on for miles but I don’t have the space of time to tell you all of them, and for that, I am sorry, too, but sorry will never change the fact that I have let the poetry creep down my throat and claw itself into my bones, take apart my every being and replace my heart with words I have no trouble saying but you have trouble listening to. I know that eventually, you will grow tired of it, but until then, I will hand you love letters when you least expect it and write your name into my lungs so that even when I cannot breathe, I will remember the sound of your voice. I will surprise you with afternoon picnics and concert tickets and movie nights and even though while you are rubbing your thumb on the back of my hand I am writing a poem in my mind about the feel of it, I still have not managed to write a poem that describes you perfectly enough because you are not merely something that can be put into words, and no poetry will ever be worthy of you. My love for you is a sensation that only I will ever get the pleasure of having because although my mind is filled with beautiful words, none of them will ever be beautiful enough for you.