You know when you get over someone- little bits and pieces of them still remain attached to you, like a ship that refuses to sink, like a memory that stays afloat within the oceans of your mind. You’ve never truly let them go- they’re still quite palpably there, like a faded photograph, a paling scar and sometimes the thought of them will surface for no reason at all. But I think that’s the beauty of it all- each and every person you meet will leave an imprint on you- a rooted impression, some deeper than others, some are so light and gentle that they’re barely there. But over time, these imprints fade, and sometimes you forget about them completely; but just as you least expect them to, little reminders of that person might reappear- and this could be the smallest, most insignificant things- but they still are, notable traces and hints of them. Picking up these traces (broken seashells, shorelines, dog-eared maps) will once again lead you back to those feelings, those thoughts that once existed- long forgotten and hidden in the musky archives of dusty memories. And when you retrieve your book of untold stories- of firsts and lasts, of fluttering feelings, of sinking sadness, of missing, of pining, of could-haves and should-haves…you’re overwhelmed with reminiscing. And it’s this warm, glowing feeling you get: like honey treacles, thick and viscous and saccharine sweet, like you’ve rekindled a fire that died out a long time ago. And that, is bittersweet.
It’s midnight now and somewhere in a November
that still exists tonight, we’re kissing each other’s knuckles
for the first time.
I’ve swallowed hearts like apricots
and I’ve watched as the juice of being in love
dripped down my chin and spread like watercolors
across my skin.
— I’ve seen what shades I feel in
when I feel in shades of
I’ve lived through seven seas of heartbreak
but I wouldn’t take any of it back
because on each shoreline I found another reason
to let someone lead me into the waves
with my eyes closed.
Do you remember how raw the night seemed
when we cracked the moon over our teeth and let its
yolk run down our throat?
Salmonella or not,
I loved you then.
It’s April now,
and there are showers, like they promised.
Driving around in the rain today,
someone told me that May would be
But fuck it. I don’t want May flowers.
I only want
— “Thinking About The Way You Hold Your Hands Over Flowerbeds,” Shinji Moon (via commovente)
Everyone is cute, they just may not be YOUR kind of cute. But they’re cute to someone, and that thought alone is adorable.
Lolita by Vlamidir Nabokov, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Lovers’ Dictionary by David Levithan, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami x
heartache, adj: pulsating gently in your veins, lost and nostalgic of wrung out sorrows, undulating waves, a dull murmur beneath your solar plexus. Dumb and dreamy and a sweet tangerine tang, the kind that laces around your tongue; the pale fingerprint of a faded memory, torn and tethered, blurry around the edges. A lump in the throat, swallowed thoughts, quivering silences. A pile of broken bird bones, cinnamon peels, burnt wood. Speckles of dust caught beneath your eyelids, loneliness stitched to the edges of your skin. Empty clavicles. Stained sweaters. Calendars. Dog-eared maps. A warm mug of coffee, raindrops, an old novel. Maybe you’ll be alright.
No I wont, I won’t, I won’t. It’s consuming me whole, and throbbing within me- i could feel it in my ears, those reverberations; the thoughts of you, of us, constantly ricocheting within the dilapidated walls of my mind. i’m worn out and i’m tired and i can’t stop thinking- the memories are raw and vivid and i can still feel your presence so palpably there. a kind of sinking feeling that anchored me to the bottomless, abysmal pits of ocean floors, a feeling that corroded my insides, breaking me down and assimilating my being. long, drawn-out sighs. tears, tears, uncontrollable tears. empty bus rides and dew frosted windows. i miss you, i miss you, i miss you. please, someone alleviate the pain, i’ll do anything to be alright again.