What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.
I love you without knowing how, why, or even from where
First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context.
Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it.
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
A lover tries to stand in well with the pet dog of the house.
The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.
All sorts of yayness floods my brain. Love is such a drug.
Since there's no more you and me. It's time I let you go so I Can Be Free.
Don't pretend to know me when I don't even know myself.
