Marisa Crane

The Smiths dream into my ear on this lost and lonely morning. I sing along like it is the only prayer I know (forgive me, Mother Mary).

Loving him is like trying to hold onto an armful of balloons. Maybe I need someone to come along and pop them.

The moonlight melts into lace across your thighs. Unbridled passion, an Elliott Smith vinyl, and the intimate place of you.

The love we shared is a paper town on a map we drew ourselves, drunk and fucked and needing to be more than we were.

If we are simply energy, neither created or destroyed, and if a body is just a body, celestial or not, why don’t you come over here and we will make collisions out of moments.

If only I had known then the speed with which she could die, maybe I wouldn’t have become the hemlock.

I have simply found a way of loving through whatever absences or dejections have fallen like tree branches in my path.

I’m fine with the ups and downs in our story as long as the theme is love.

Everything is clearer when you’re in love.

What’s my hand without your heart to hold?

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

When you plant a seed of love, it is you that blossoms.

Love can be hard. Love requires you to be kind when you are angry, patient when you feel anxious, compassionate when you judge others, caring when you feel apathetic, trust when you’ve been wronged, let go when you want to hold on, know that the other person is you, take risks when you’re scared, to always see the lesson and never look back once you’ve decided. – Jackson Kiddard

Don’t forget me, don’t forget me. I wouldn’t leave you if you’d let me.

I have never had trouble to love others, but loving myself was difficult. For years I didn’t like myself, so how could I love myself. It has taken time, and still there is a way to go, but I can say, not only do I like myself, but also care about myself enough to start loving myself too.

Some men love truth so much that they seem to be in continual fear lest she should catch a cold on overexposure.

Doctoring her seemed to her as absurd as putting together the pieces of a broken vase. Her heart was broken. Why would they try to cure her with pills and powders?

Love. The reason I dislike that word is that it means too much for me, far more than you can understand. (Anna Karenina)

I live in the realm of romantic possibility.

To love another person is to see the face of God.

Women should serve men. Men should serve women. Any house of peace is full of servants.