violets are blue

[floriographys]

a note: sometimes it isn’t meant to be. a note: you will fall fast and you will fall hard but sometimes it isn’t meant to be. a note: you will see forever in them and they in you and the table will look so right set for two but sometimes it isn’t meant to be. a note: you will love but you will have to forget because what you thought of “we” was not their “us” and you’d given too much of you to their teeth. sometimes it isn’t meant to be.

a.d.

[floriographys]

come home this is a plea. come home. this is coming from me and these lonely floors and streets. come home. i've rebuilt our walls and replanted our trees the world is loud but here is a sanctuary for you to drop anchor if you're lost at sea come home. please, come home to me.

a.d.

[floriographys]

i know it's been years but i've still got love left inside me in slivers of reds and yellows, and i know your heart's been shot to grays, but i'm not asking for permanence nor am i asking for you to paint yourself pretty. it's just that i'm looking at these colors and, goddamn, they're so beautiful; it would be a shame to bask in them alone.

notes on us.

[naimabarcelona]

[floriographys]

first: realize. four plane tickets and seven thousand miles later, let the gravity of your actions finally slam on your shoulders. let realization spark in your mind like lightning in the brewing of a storm. stop the car in the middle of the road on the way to the place you thought was home stop the car kill the engine drop your head into your hands say an "i'm sorry" to him. he will not hear it. second: feel. be angry at yourself. be angry at the world. be angry at the grass. be angry at the "no loitering" sign when the six blocks from point A to your apartment suddenly felt too far and you needed to sit down or else or else or else or tell yourself not to cry. cry anyway. self-loathing is next. wipe your tears. it hurts, i know. then regret. regret the has-beens and what-could-have-beens and the great big What If and the pages upon pages of repetitive lines and curves and lines and curves and lines and curves in your sketchbook. third: accept. you were both young and you in particular were reckless. the earth was in his eyes and adoration was in his smile. you don't believe in love; you believe in infatuation then love after. you thought you were somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. you left without so much as a warning when he was worth so much more than the pretty words on pretty paper that you laced together with cowardice. he deserved so much more. fourth: breathe. it hurts, i know. fifth: love him. love him like you never left. love him like he's still a few doors down. love him like shade during the summer and the scent of warm coffee during the winter. love him like a thousand love poems about how he completes you or how we are only human or something cheesy about the way he looks in the moonlight. love him like you would have vowed to. love him like he's still yours to love. last: let him go. it hurts, i know. but, whatever you do, do not forget.

it's been more than half a year and my hands still remember you.

[floriographys]

we stood with the tile beneath our feet and the spray pouring over our heads and you told me about the demons that haunted you. there was apprehension in your eyes and the way you bit your lip and your fingertips whispered fear when they brushed against mine. perhaps you were afraid that i would push you away once i saw through the chink in your armor and found what was truly laying underneath. i hope you know now: the only thing you ever need to be afraid of is that i may forget how you like your eggs served in the morning. i hope you know now: you need only be afraid that i'll forget to tell you at least once a day that i love you. we can face your demons together.

notes on us.

[yuai]

Sakura (by Hamachi!)

[againbeholdthestars-deactivated]