Every Night I Cut Out My Heart.

She Moved From Being A Young Woman Into Having The Angular Look Of A Queen, Someone Who Has Made Her Face With Her Desire To Be A Certain Kind Of Person. He Still Likes That About Her. Her Smartness, The Fact That She Did Not Inherit That Look Or That Beauty, But It Was Something Searched For And That It Will Always Reflect A Present Stage Of Her Character.

He Knows That The Only Way He Can Accept Losing Her Is If He Can Continue To Hold Her Or Be Held By Her. If They Can Somehow Nurse Each Other Out Of This. Not With A Wall.

A Love Story Is Not About Those Who Lost Their Heart But About Those Who Find That Sullen Inhabitant Who, When It Is Stumbled Upon, Means The Body Can Fool No One, Can Fool Nothing—not The Wisdom Of Sleep Or The Habit Of Social Graces. It Is A Consuming Of Oneself And The Past.

In The Desert The Most Loved Waters, Like A Lover's Name, Are Carried Blue In Your Hands, Enter Your Throat. One Swallows Absence.

There's A Lot Of Thievery Involved In Writing. You're Breaking Into Other People's Spaces And Other People's Stories.