Hearts don’t break.
It’s just another thing the poets say.
Hearts are not made
Of glass
Or bone
Or any material that could
Splinter
Or Fragment
Or Shatter.
They don’t
Crack Into Pieces.
They don’t
Fall Apart.
Hearts don’t break.
They just stop working.
An old watch from another time and no parts to fix it.

He says they're not his type, but I don't really get the concept of having a type. My type is girls. All of them. Why would I limit my dating pool?

prom·ise (ˈpräməs) n. pl. - es. 1. The lie you want to keep. [2015, Whittier]

We watch the way the water pulls back and turns over and beats against the sand, trying to wear the earth away. And even though it doesn't succeed, it pulls back and pounds the shore again and again, as if there were no last time and there is no next time and this time is the time that counts.

I read once that, on average, we replace the majority of our cells every seven years. Even more amazing: we change the upper layers of our skin every two weeks. If all the cells in our body did this, we’d be immortal. But some of our cells, like the ones in our brains, don’t renew. They age, and age us. In two weeks my skin will have no memory of Olly’s hand on mine, but my brain will remember. We can have immortality or the memory of touch. But we can’t have both.

You're not living if you're not regretting.