Mary Oliver

It’s hard to love a woman and do anything.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

There’s nothing more romantic than getting down in the dirt and plowing through the weeds, brambles, thickets, and dry land of life with someone just as willing by your side.

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

Don’t ever let anyone keep your heart on a shelf just to take it down whenever it is convenient for them to feel.

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.

It’s important to remember where you came from; it’s the easiest way to locate where you are.

To live is like to love – all reason is against it, and all healthy instinct for it.

If you can’t hurt with me, don’t flirt with me.

To the people who love you, you are beautiful already. This is not because they’re blind to your shortcomings but because they so clearly see your soul. Your shortcomings then dim by comparison. The people who care about you are willing to let you be imperfect and beautiful, too.

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

The choice to follow love through to its completion is the choice to seek completion within ourselves. The point at which we shut down on others is the point at which we shut down on life.

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

When I told you I wasn’t in love, I lied.

Provided that he only broke you into pieces, you still have it all, like a pizza in slices, every. bite, delicious. You may not feel whole, but you are no less because of a feeling.