Twenty Boy Summer

Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it happened. But once my eyes open, it buries me like a landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes open, I'm heavy, like there's to much gravity on my heart.

Every story is part of a whole, entire life, you know? Happy and sad and tragic and whatever, but an entire life. And books let you know them.

Sometimes you gotta just take things for what they are and appreciate them, not try to label it or explain it. Explanations take the mystery out of it, you know?

When someone you love dies, people ask you how you're doing, but they don't really want to know. They seek affirmation that you're okay, that you appreciate their concern, that life goes on and so can they. Secretly they wonder when the statute of limitations on asking expires (its three months, by the way. Written or unwritten, that's about all the time it takes for people to forget the one thing that you never will).

I really don't even know you, and yet, in my life, you are forever entangled; to my history, inextricably bound.

Sometimes I think we all feel guilty for being happy, and as soon as we catch ourselves acting like everything is okay, someone remembers it's not.

He loved to read. He loved words, the way they string together into sentences and stories. He wanted to study them, to know and create them, to share them with the world.

I'm fine, thanks for not asking.

I accept the hard reality that I maybe might possibly be just the slightest tiniest littlest bit kinda sorta interested in him.

Same people. Same hellos and goodbyes. Same beginnings and endings. Same befores and afters.

Sweetheart, when you say Matt's name, you have the same look in your eyes that he'd get whenever he'd say yours.

When it happens, you’re totally unprepared, fragmented and lost, looking for the hidden meaning in every little thing. I’ve replayed the events of that day a hundred thousand times, looking for clues. An alternate ending. The Butterfly effect. If I could find the butterfly that flapped its wings before we got into the car that day, I would crush it.

I just swallow hard. Nod and smile. One foot in front of the other. I'm fine, thanks for not asking.

When I kissed Sam, I was so scared of erasing Matt. But now I know that I could never erase him. He'll always be a part of me - just in a different way. Like Sam, making smoothies on the beach two thousand miles away. Like Frankie, my voodoo magic butterfly finding her way back home in the dark. Like the stars, fading with the halo of the vanishing moon. Like the ocean, falling and whispering against the shore. Nothing ever really goes away - it just changes into something else. Something beautiful.

The only excuse I can think of is the truth – she’s broken. Until someone can figure out how to fix her, what else can she do?

Like the stars, fading with the halo of the vanishing moon. Like the ocean, falling and whispering against the shore. Nothing ever really goes away - it just changes into something else. Something beautiful.

What is the statute of limitations on feeling guilty for cheating on a ghost?

Like the beach glass you guys always brought me. Sometimes I dump it out on my desk and press my ear to the pieces, trying to hear the ocean. Trying to hear you.

My eyes were closed and his mouth tasted like marzipan flowers and clove cigarettes, and in ten seconds the whole of my life was wrapped up in that one kiss, that one wish, that one secret that would forever divide my life into two parts.

But when he died, I saw-- nothing. There was nothing left to see.

Anna," he said, dragging his frosted fingers through my hair."Don't you know what it means when a boy pulls your hair at your birthday party?" "No." Just, then, i didn't know what anything meant.

If I could find the butterfly that flapped its wings before we got into the car that day, I would crush it.

Sometimes I think I'm an alien that accidentally fell off the mother ship, destined to wander among clueless earthling parents for all eternity.

If I closed my eyes as you were talking, it was like I was there, like your stories were my stories. In many ways, I feel as if I have memories of you there, too.

But when he died, I saw - nothing. There was nothing left to see. It happened and it was impossible and beautiful and then it ended before it even really began, leaving nothing behind but secrets and broken hearts.

When you’re in the middle of being in love with someone, you just don’t stop to ask.

What if I come back and I'm different, Anna? Sometimes you go to a place where everything is different, and everything you ever know changes, and no one ever looks at you the same?