“We are our own tragedies. The people we love seemingly are only endings that we prefer before the curtain falls on its own accord.” — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“My kind of love is made for the stage, untouchable and unbroken; its fate is to be doomed in repetition, in the most beautiful form of art.” — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“No love defines us as much as the losses we have made in its name.” — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“We place too much of ourselves inside art - so we become part of it and never feel quiet again for the people, we… — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“Christmas Hyacinths The air grows cleaner with each sight Of words - silver and clear - Without heaviness and sighs. Winter closes in on each street, That familiar place we haunted to keep, While we hope to seek the dearest near. Frozen blossoms in trembling hands, With shadows of blue and grey, Counting footsteps back into the heat. The emptiness of many Is returned in ink and… — Laura Chouette Copy Share
“We are our own tragedies. The people we love seemingly are only endings that we prefer before the curtain falls on its own accord.” — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“Simple things are found in ordinariness - but extraordinary things live inside love.” — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“Love paints the heart so delicate; so why would my words ever borrow the ink of their own demise?” — Laura Chouette Copy Share Image
“The Price Love will probably kill me, Long before I fell out of it, Or madly in with another. It will rush like a red hand, With doubt and steady stillness, Of another lover into something else. It will kill with everything, But a feeling of full self-despair, And a moment of bitter nostalgia. Love will probably kill me, Leaving everything I am behind, Or giving me anything… — Laura Chouette Copy Share
“(WHEN I WAS A CHILD) I was told that I was insane, seeing doctors in hospitals far away from home. LITTLE WHITE PILLS inside small transparent containers that could fit my baby teeth like seashells, I dreamed. WHEN I WAS A CHILD my mind made up things— not castles of sand, nor careless childish dreams. NOW I AM GROWN I… — Laura Chouette Copy Share
