I notice he doesn't have his meteorite bag and see out the window it's probably going to pour any minute, but wee need to et out of here. Immediately. "We're going to search for meteorites," I say, like that's what most people do on winter mornings. ...
No hot guy should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.
People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.
She's a people-mechanic and always knows when I'm malfunctioning.
I'm thinking the reason I've been so quiet all those years is only because Brian wasn't around yet for me to tell everything to.
They do make love stories for girls with black hearts after all. They go like this.
My heart leaves, hitchhikes right out of my body, heads north, catches a ferry across the Bering Sea and plants itself in Siberia with the polar bears and ibex and long-horned goats until it turns into a teeny-tiny glacier. Because I imagined it.
I wish I were a horse.
I run my hands through his hair, finally, finally, finally, then bring his head to mine and kiss him so hard our teeth collide, planets collide, kissing him now for each and every time we didn't all summer long. I know absolutely how to kiss him too,...
And even as I'm kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, I wish I were kissing him, wanting more, more, more, more, like I can't get enough, never will be able to get enough.
What if I'm in charge of my own damn light switch?
It was right and wrong both. Love does as it undoes. It goes after, with equal tenacity, joy and heartbreak.
Male leads in love stories need to be devoted, need to chase trains, cross continents, give up fortunes and thrones, defy convention, face prosecution, take apart rooms and break the backs of angels, sketch the beloved all over the cement walls of th...
When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.
Isn't that what I always think when I get The Poor Motherless Girl Look? Like I've been shoved out of the airplane without a parachute because mothers are the parachutes.
Portrait: The Boy with All the Keys in the World with All the Locks
This is how he came out: he floated into the air high above the sleeping forest, his green hat spinning a few feet above his head. In his hand was the open suitcase and out of it spilled a whole sky of stars.