There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love. (Illustration: Titanic Painting by Manesta Art)

The thing with falling in love with a poet is that it is falling in love with a stranger who writes poetry at 8 am or 10 pm, hoping to find his lover back in front of him. (Photo by Nicolas Messifet⁠ on ⁠Unsplash⁠)

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. (Photo by Wallace Chuck on Pexels)

It remained burning like the stars, so bright that if the sun has eyes, it would crumble just by the sight of you. (BGM: Those Eyes by New West // Photo by Albina White on Pexels)

Smudged by unstressed, as if a painting was caressed by a burnt artist whose heart is now heavenly at rest. (BGM: Shrike by Hozier // Photo by Niranjan T G on Pexels)

Where should we go after the last frontiers? Where should the birds fly after the last sky? Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air? (Photo by Sindre Fs on Pexels)

Though she wasn't a blaze yet, only an ember, she was his. (BGM: Destroy Myself Just For You by Montell Fish // Photo by ⁠Isai Ramos⁠ on ⁠Unsplash)

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple. (Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels)

And may you always find each other, like a river finds the sea. (BGM: Like You by Meyta // Photo by Dmitry Zvolskiy on Pexels)

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. (Photo by ⁠Barth Bailey⁠ on ⁠Unsplash)