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artofbitterness

I used to think home was the bottom of a wine bottle Or a 2am bar fight. Home was time zones, dirty fingernails, glasses half full. It was forgetting to call my parents and spilling coffee on my white sweater. Six months later, it’s 8am and you’re lying next to me. The sunlight coming in from our bedroom window hits your face at the perfect angle. You teach me about Hemmingway and how his own loneliness drove him mad. We eat breakfast on the floor and I say, “I was damaged goods before I met you. Russian Roulette with my finger waiting patiently on the trigger. Everything around me was static noise, dead roses, and coffee grounds. I considered mistakes and kisses to be of the same value and projected my love on to other people when I couldn’t figure out how to love myself. But one look at you and all of this collateral damage doesn’t seem so collateral anymore. I trace your body like a map. The indents in your spine let me know that I am home. And by home I mean pomegranate seeds, Afternoon plans, my finger off the trigger. By home I mean water colors, comfortable silence, and the birthmark on your left shoulder. And I know that my love is messy and unorganized most of the time but your skin is the closest thing I have ever called to home.”

a.a (via artofbitterness)