a place full of art, history, and poetry as well as my sarcasm, random thoughts, and possible ideas for academic papers.
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Cosimo Galluzzi

JBB: An Artblog!

Kiana Khansmith
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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wallacepolsom
sheepfilms
Misplaced Lens Cap
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Jules of Nature

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styofa doing anything

shark vs the universe
Acquired Stardust

blake kathryn
🪼
ojovivo
One Nice Bug Per Day

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@dilcetto
a place full of art, history, and poetry as well as my sarcasm, random thoughts, and possible ideas for academic papers.
i was meant to be yours.
i was meant to care for you and your well-being. i was meant to support you and your dreams. i was meant to hold you and trace my fingers over your skin, memorising the lines of your face. i was meant to kiss you as if your lips were water after spending my whole life thirsty. i was meant to make love to you like there was no today, nor tomorrow. i was meant to make you smile, to hear you laugh, to see you cry the tears of joy. i was meant to hurt you only in the small ways that loving someone sometimes does, all to repair everything with patience, with soft words, with hands that never let go.
i was meant to be held in your arms, squeezed so tightly that you could remember my scent long after i left the room, meant to be kissed by you in that quiet, absent-minded way that leaves an invisible trace on my skin, meant to be admired by you like i was the most precious thing in your world, not because i was perfect, but because i was yours
i was meant to be protected by you, not like something fragile, but like something worth keeping close, something you would choose again and again, even on the days when love felt ordinary, even on the days when we were tired and quiet and nothing dramatic happened at all
i was meant to be shown that my love isn’t suffocating, that it isn’t too much or too intense, but something that can be held, something that can be returned, something that fills you the way it fills me, so that loving you doesn’t feel like pouring endlessly into an empty space, but like standing in a warm light where, for once, i feel just as loved as i love.
i was meant to stay, meant not to be scared that i am not enough, not perfect, because you make me feel loved so deeply that i forget the shape of my own insecurities, as if they melt in the warmth of your hands.
i was meant to hold your hands through the rough times, when uncertainty is the biggest threat and the future feels like a fog we have to walk through together, meant to be reassured by you, again and again, that we are meant to be, that we both want the same quiet things, the same mornings, the same home, the same version of love where it’s just you and me choosing each other and nothing else.
i was meant to prove to you that no one has ever loved you as deeply and strongly as i do, meant to wrap you in a kind of love so steady and warm that everything in your past feels pale in comparison, not erased, just distant, like a life you lived before you knew what it meant to be truly held.
i was meant to make you feel that maybe what you had before wasn’t love at all, or at least not the kind that stays, not the kind that listens, not the kind that looks at you like you are both a safe place and a miracle at the same time.
i was meant to show you, day after day, in small gestures and quiet devotion, that no one can love you in the same breath as i do, that no one can see you the way i see you, or choose you the way i choose you, over and over again, without hesitation, without doubt, as if loving you was never a decision, but something written into me from the very beginning.
i used to post everything. every little ache, every soft line, every piece that couldn’t land anywhere else. just to feel like someone, somewhere, might hold it for a moment. but now— the words have found a place. someone, actually. and suddenly, i don’t feel the need to share them here. because they’re being read by the only person they were meant for. no more scattering what was meant to be held. no more offering pieces of myself to the void. this time, the writing has a home. and for once, it’s not a blog.
to be loved, not lusted.
he doesn’t make dirty jokes — not even to make me laugh.
he doesn’t toe the line between flirting and discomfort.
he respects the space between us and waits for the yes.
we have a to-do list of things we want to do together,
and i know we’ll actually do them.
no games. no expectations hiding in the margins.
he wants my presence, not my body.
he doesn’t sexualise me.
he doesn’t make me feel like i have to perform softness to be worthy of care.
he thinks i’m most beautiful in baggy clothes,
with no makeup,
on days where i don’t even feel like myself.
and for the first time,
i believe it too.
𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔰
my tumblr blog used to be my archive.
most of the poems i wrote were posted here almost immediately, as if pressing "post" was part of my writing routine as well. proof that the feeling existed, that i existed inside it, i lived it.
i haven't posted my poetry in a while. i haven't written any in a while either.
the last time i opened my notes app, i was still hurting over you. that was few months ago. a decent amount of time has passed - enough distance to stop bleeding, not yet enough to stop remembering. that's not dramatic – it's just true. you were the first. and apparently, that's enough to linger even when nothing was ever properly named.
we didn't date, and that's how i became another story of this generation. half-intimacy, ignorant to clarity, too much feeling for something that never fully began.
i didn't write. not a single line. the words stopped coming. the inspiration, or the urge to spill my feelings out through the only way i knew: to turn my pain into art, shape it into something worth sharing, something almost beautiful. it was all gone.
instead, i started writing something else. rational things. personal essays, reflections. venting, camouflaged as understanding.
somewhere in between, it got clearer.
i see how wrong you were. how wrong i was. how often i ignored my own feelings just to keep something alive. i can't say i'm fully over it, but i can't say i'm still actively hurting either.
some days you were the villain. some days i was - for not asking, hoping the answer would change instead of facing what it already was.
it is what it is.
i know this now: whatever we have left, what we are now, is fragile. the moment someone real enters my life, someone who chooses me openly, my association with you will become distant. i won't hesitate to cut it off – not out of cruelty, but out of respect for that someone and my boundaries. the same courtesy you didn't want to give me.
we're still friends, technically, but not the way we were. the gc is quiet now. everyone is elsewhere, living different chapters. it doesn't mean we care less – just that time moved on without warning.
if we meet again, i think i'll smile and say, "good to see you. you look good." you ask how i'm doing, i'll say "good."
i drink my coffee black now. i met new people. people who softened me. people who matched me in care and love.
i don't invest where i'm not emotionally met anymore. the moment i feel like i care more than i'm given - i withdraw. i'm not bitter, i just protect myself.
i guess, this is moving on. or it's moving on in process. either way, i'm here again.
back in my notes. back on tumblr. opening the app without avoiding it. letting a word become a line, a line become something worth remembering.
i’ve accepted how things are, and my eyes still cry
the only person who puts immense pressure on me is myself.
actions speak the feelings i can’t name.
suddenly poetry/love letters/written confessions in my journal don't fulfill me anymore - but i still love you
hello loves, i've started sharing more of my writing on medium and substack! don't worry, i still shall continue spamming on this platform as well.
isn’t it in our nature to take care of the people that we love? it just happens — instinct, not intention. you don’t stop to weight what it…
feel free to comment and share your thoughts; I'll be happy to read them.
toddles
lmaooo i forgot that i have tumblr.
art parallels jeremy lipking, federico zandomeneghi, serge marshennikov, allan douglas davidson, svetlana tartakovska
me yesterday, tomorrow, everyday
sometimes I look back at what I wrote, and I feel the wave of disgust hit my spine.
classic writer/poet experience
“girls only care about money”
no.
you have no idea what we care about.
i would save your little notes,
folded unevenly, written half-asleep—
the ones that said “made it home safe” or “you looked nice today.”
i would reread your letters until the paper went soft at the edges.
i would press every flower you ever gave me between pages of my favorite books,
just to open them years later and remember how your hands looked holding them.
i would keep the receipts from corner cafés,
draw hearts around our orders,
write poems on the backs of crumpled napkins and keep them like treasure.
i would circle random dates in the calendar.
not anniversaries, not birthdays.
just… the first tuesday you smiled at me like you meant it.
the wednesday you called me something soft.
the friday you held my hand without thinking.
i would carry your words in my pockets.
memorize the way you say “come here.”
highlight the sound of your laugh like it’s a line in my favorite book.
don’t say girls only care about money.
we care about everything.
especially the small things.
especially you.
you didn’t break my heart, you used it. and the saddest thing is that i let you do it.
if love is like the moon,
then yes—it’s true.
because love transforms.
it moves through phases,
just like that silver beauty in the sky.
it begins as curiosity,
soft and glowing at the edges.
then grows into passion—
bright, undeniable.
passion deepens into warmth,
and warmth becomes devotion.
then sometimes—
it drifts into longing.
sometimes, it disappears completely.
but like the moon,
love never stops existing.
even when it’s hidden.
even when it’s just a sliver of light.
it’s still love.
and if love is the moon,
then it’s beautiful in all its phases.
not just when it’s full and shining,
but when it’s broken, dim, or gone from sight.
love doesn’t have to be whole to be beautiful.
even a simple affection.
even one-sided.
there is still beauty in it.
because the feeling itself is sacred.
because that’s what love means to me—
not something constant in appearance,
but something constant in presence.
something i keep searching for,
always looking up at the sky to find,
even when it’s not shining.
even when it seems gone.
i know it’s still there.
and that knowing—
that quiet trust—
is enough.