“And how would you know?” “I don’t, just like you don’t.” “But I do know” “Really?” “Yes.” “But you’ve been looking in the mirror all this time.” “And you would know.” “Yes. I’ve been looking at the same one.”

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“Do you miss her?” “Everyday.” “Even while she was here?” “Yes.”

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Somebody once told me: “I have loved so deeply, I’m not sure if I can love again.” And I believed her. Now I feel tempted to say the same. But I cannot confess it to be true. Simply because I don’t know, for sure.

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If a picture paints a thousand words, (have I written all in vain)?

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He watches Sadness drip Through his fingers.

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What’s the point of crying ‘freedom’, when it seems we just willingly trade one set of chains for another?

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When the sun sets on my horizon, does it rise on you?

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In desperation, she picks up the phone, and talks to the dial tone.

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Every word is stained with the hand of the writer.

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Only a fool waits by the phone.

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