The saltwater was up to our chins, the sunset was taking every last orange pulp half of the earth has borrowed from it. My hair was tangled between your fingers when you asked me if it was possible to see the sunset underwater. I tell you, yes. You tell me, no. We fight over the littlest of things. We blame the moon, we blame the atoms that exist in the universe, and every salt between our lips when we kiss. I will never get tired of fighting you, you said. I will never get tired of being wrong as long as you are right here, a reminder of the one thing that endlessly feels right.
Tears are curious things, for like earthquakes or puppet shows, they can occur at any time, without any warning and without any good reason.
I am lonely. I’ve been like that since I was young. But I think I am a person that needs to be lonely.
This is why it hurts the way it hurts.
You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache.
You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.
I hope they ask about me & I hope you tell them you fucked up.
How beautiful is it that someone could make your heart beat so fast when you don’t want it to beat at all.
I’m awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
I have sea foam in my veins, I understand the language of waves.
Listen: there’s a hell
of a good universe next door; let’s go
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.
You are a Sunday porch I could do nothing on
and feel like everything was happening.
Call your mother. Tell her you love her. Remember you’re the only person who knows what her heart sounds like from the inside.
We were holding hands since 1976. Your grandfather’s voice sounded like leaves rustling. As if he had rows and rows of trees growing down his throat, tail winds coming out of his mouth as though it were a pathway made of layered skies. He told me about his dream of tasting fingertip after fingertip of his favorite poem. He said, “the one who wrote this wanted to take my lungs out and feed them to the wolves. All of this is a booby trap. I just fell without warning. I just fell towards a flying bullet that was not meant to kill me in the first place. I just fell for you.” Your grandfather and I, we do not laugh at the same time when hearing each other’s failed punch lines, no. But we feel hurt and happiness at moments we never thought we will, year after year, with each other, until he breathed his last and until I will breathe mine.
I think my ex for three years and I will be bumping into each other in a party this week. I don't feel all too good, I don't know, when I know that I have moved on already. I just want him out of my life for good. I am afraid if I see him the pain's going to resurrect and I don't want that.
you decide. but you can’t force yourself, luv. (by the way if you want to see his face as he sees you not minding at all, that would be even better. you can go all brave and beyonce and kick ass and show him what he lost :)