All that matters is this moment. @amberdawnann - Tumblr Blog

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wondrousworld

Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee, USA by Jesse Summers

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warmsuggestion

We live in a two bedroom house. It’s a small house. We sleep close together every night even when it’s hot. There is a table in the backyard. There is no grass. It’s mostly a garden. We grow a lot of vegetables and herbs. Every summer we see who can grow the best tomatoes. Mine are great, but yours are sublime. I don’t mind losing the tomato contest. I still get to eat all of them with you.

You sunbathe and I sit next to you under the shade of a large, painted umbrella. You are so beautiful that I feel nervous and excited. We cook together and you kiss me while I’m cutting something and I worry that I’ll cut myself, but I never do.

When we eat, we don’t sit across from each other. We sit on the same side of the table. We’re closer. Kissing with food in our mouths. Laughing with food in our mouths.

We both work early. Sometimes I will get up extra early and make us an absurdly large breakfast. We let the dirty pots and pans and dishes sit on the counter all day. I think about you while I work. I wonder if you’re thinking about me. I think so.

I try to show you a movie I like and you fall asleep halfway through. That’s alright. I can watch and you can sleep with your head on a pillow and your legs across mine. I look at you.

blossomfully

One day he says, “I am so tired,” and you nod. You say, “I’m sorry.” This is how it is; how it’s always been. He shakes his head and you apologise for being the cause of his stress. Neither of you are wrong. Neither of you are right. He says, “I don’t know what to do anymore. Are you happy?” You can’t say yes; and you don’t want to say no, just because you’re unhappy doesn’t mean you want him to go. He asks you, “does love even factor into this anymore?” And you think it must, it must, but all your problems revolve around something else - like arguing about undercooking the eggs; like getting jealous about their ex; like hurting them and not apologising; like always having to be right. He holds you gently one night, he says, “am I the one?” You think, “I want you to be. Fuck. Don’t you understand?” You say, “of course you are,” and you don’t return the question. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t say it back.

S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #240 (via blossomfully)