Lang Leav ausztrál
Katalógusnév | Leav, Lang |
---|---|
Nem | nő |
Könyvei 10
Illusztrálásai 3
Népszerű idézetek
You were you,
and I was I;
we were two
before our time.
I was yours
before I knew,
and you have always
been mine too.
To Know Him
If you want to know his heart, pay close attention to what angers him.
If you want to know his mind, listen for the words that linger in his silence.
If you want to know his soul, look at where his eyes are when you catch him
smiling.
Somehow, there is a sense of comfort in knowing nothing will ever hit me quite as hard again. Nothing will ever be as beautiful, but neither will anything hurt as much.
Every Feeling
Lang Leav: Sea of Strangers Poetry & Prose
As a kid, I would count backwards from ten and imagine at one, there would be an explosion–perhaps caused by a rogue planet crashing into Earth or some other major catastrophe. When nothing happened, I'd feel relieved and at the same time, a little disappointed.
I think of you at ten; the first time I saw you. Your smile at nine and how it lit up something inside me I had thought long dead. Your lips at eight pressed against mine and at seven, your warm breath in my ear and your hands everywhere. You tell me you love me at six and at five we have our first real fight. At four we have our second and three, our third. At two you tell me you can't go on any longer and then at one, you ask me to stay.
And I am relieved, so relieved–and a little disappointed.
And/Or
I once wrote a book and called it And/Or. It was about choosing between
either, or having the option of both.
I’m not sure why I wrote it. Perhaps it had something to do with how I looked at
life. My lack of care. My indecision. I wanted everything because I didn’t want
anything enough.
Then I met you and it changed me. For once in my life, there was something I
wanted. So much.
For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It
was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.
Her words
Love a girl who writes,
and live her many lives;
you have yet to find her,
beneath her words of guise.
Kiss her blue inked fingers,
forgive the pens they marked.
The stain of your lips upon her–
the one she can’t discard.
Forget her tattered memories,
or the pages others took;
you are her ever after–
the hero of her book.
They say that those who live by the ocean are waiting for something. Someone must have decided long ago to put me by the sea. To live each moment by the light of the stars.
By the Sea