bc i love <3 (john mayer)

 Love is a hot shower where your skin never prunes.

 Ladies, if you want to know the way to my heart...good spelling and good grammar, good punctuation, capitalize only where you are supposed to capitalize, it`s done.

 I don`t mind making sissy rock... I`ll rock your ass sensitive-style

 Sometimes I wish that I was the weather, you`d bring me up in conversation forever. And when it rained, I`d be the talk of the day.

 Numb is the new deep, done with the old me, and talk is the same cheap it`s been.

 Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you`re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I`ve got a few missing. It`s ok though, because I`ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who`s an 8-color type.. I`m like, "hey girl, magenta!" and she`s like, "oh, you mean purple!" and she goes off on her purple thing, and I`m like, "no - I want magenta!"

 I`d like to think the best of me was still hiding up in my sleeve.

 Everybody is just a stranger, but that`s the danger in going my own way.

.dance.

Dance
By Kim Addonizio

When you are finally, magically, able to clone yourself into several identical women, so that each one can move toward a man who’s been waiting for his turn to come around for the first time, or maybe again,won’t you be happy then,all of you together in a lustrous ballroom,each woman wearing her distinguishing number,

the judges scoring everyone the same, music spilling from the bandstand, the men thrilled to be near you, each one whispering a different pet name, each one polishing with his black shoes a perfect circle of floor
while
      he
         raises
                 you
                     up, holding your hips in his hands, gazing at you with his brown or mottled green eyes, looking down with his startling blue ones, taking you into a corner then spinning you out toward the center where the light from the mirrorball splinters over your skin, sidereal as your sequined dress, and you feel as complete as you’ll ever feel, moving through all your true and beautiful lives

while the real one pales.