The flesh of past lovers looks both familiar and strange.
I know there is something out there, and like most people, I tend to believe in it more when things go bad. But I'm not like Shirley MacLaine, who probably believes we were past lovers in another life.
Let him join the men of the past. Her old lovers were ghosts. None of them had survived; none were missed.
Tennis belongs to the individualistic past - a hero, or at most a pair of friends or lovers, against the world.
In every heart there is a room, A sanctuary safe and strong, To heal the wounds from lovers past, Until a new one comes along
If she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed. Strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door.
What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?
You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.