I read a really sad but beautiful quote from Anaïs Nin yesterday:
"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of withering, of tarnishing."
I don't know much about her other than she was born in France and wrote the preface to Tropic of Cancer.
Google her I guess.