She kissed someone else goodnight tonight.
The flames danced blissfully as they melted the old photographs reminding her that joy can be found even in destruction.
Being a writer is the closest thing to being God. You create, you destroy, and you leave the world to ponder the meaning of it all.
Those imaginary state lines have become a prison for lonely hearts. If you love the person, escape.
We became writers because we believe that things are better left said.