Words were different when they lived inside of you.
I bet you could sometimes find all the mysteries of the universe in someone's hand.
I got to thinking that poems were like people. Some people you got right off the bat. Some people you just didn't get--and never would get
Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder.
The summer sun was not meant for boys like me. Boys like me belonged to the rain.
To be careful with people and with words was a rare and beautiful thing.
Maybe we just lived between hurting and healing.
We all fight our own private wars.
But love was always something heavy for me. Something I had to carry.
I hated being volunteered. The problem with my life was that it was someone else's idea.
And it seemed to me that Dante's face was a map of the world. A world without any darkness.
Wow, a world without darkness. How beautiful was that.