But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves. — Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita. (Vintage March 19, 1996) Originally published 1966.
I am dressed in layers of trains.I showed upwith no pulse in my voice,loose change,stark naked. My heart, calling from a phone boothin the rain. — Sarah Morgan, from “Train,” Animal Ballistics. (Write Bloody Publishing April 22, 2014)
And nobody felt sad as long as we could postpone tomorrow with more nostalgia. — Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. (MTV Books; Later Printing edition February 1, 1999)
Pomegranate I open my chest and birds flock out.In my mother’s garden, the roses flaretoward the sun, but I am an arrow pointing back.I am Persephone,a virgin abducted. In the Underworld,I starve a seasonwhile the world wilts into the ghostof a summer backyard.My hunger open and raw. I lay next to a manwho did not… Continue reading Cathy Linh Che
Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember. — Joan Didion, Blue Nights. (Knopf; First Edition edition November 1, 2011)
It’s no time to be sweet—we are tender,flammable, so light, we are the orphaned ones of lovers. — Arlene Kim, from “Reasons We Left,” What Have You Done to Our Ears to Make Us Hear Echoes? (Milkweed Editions July 19, 2011)
But there’s this space between us, always this space between us. — Richard Siken, “Love from a Distance,” Spork Issue 12..
Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. — Thomas Moore, from “The Light of Other Days,” The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1918. Editor: Arthur Quiller-Couch. (Oxford University Press March 26, 1963)
To treat every day as a word spoken to us. And yourself – as an answer to the word. – Anna Kamieńska, from “The Notebook: 1965-1972″, Astonishments. (Paraclete Press (MA); First Edition edition July 1, 2007)
You must live for something, they say.People don’t live just to keep on living. But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty.Here there are blueberries, there is no need to not me. — Mary Szybist, from “Here There Are Blueberries,” Incarnadine: Poems. (Graywolf Press; First Edition edition February 5, 2013)