[shessoprettywhenshelies]

My hands are still shaking from nights spent not knowing how to want you.

Trista Mateer - The Dogs I Have Kissed (via shessoprettywhenshelies)

[thehurtingwords]

"Bullet"

“When I said I would take a bullet for you”

“I didn’t think you would be the one who pulled the trigger.”

[3amwritting]

Amazing.

[latenightcornerstore]

Late October, a man plays Hallelujah on the accordion in a parking lot outside Target. No one’s looking at him, or no one wants him to know they’re looking at him, or a hallelujah is a complicated son of a bitch, isn’t it?   Someone said this is freedom, but not in the way birds feel it. More like an untethered astronaut caught in the eternity of space. The opposite of claustrophobia. Freedom more like fear, or a half-empty oxygen tank. Freedom like the boat as it begins to take water.   This is the beginning of the running away: chasing denial across state lines, moving faster than my sadness. But he catches up in Phoenix— weighs on my chest like the heat. There, I meet a man with a bag full of meteors who holds out a handful of rocks and calls it stardust. Says it’s the oldest thing you’ll ever hold in your hands, says this is what we used to look like. And that’s how it feels— not the stars, but the dust. The slow burn of erosion. But he says, stardust. Keeps saying, stardust.   And maybe space isn’t all black holes, even if it is a hell of a lot of dark— even if I am a hell of a lot of dark. Someone’s letting the light in, someone’s playing Hallelujah on an accordion in a dimly lit parking lot and it’s beautiful. And lonely. And it feels like a whole universe in the back of my throat. And here we are at our new rock bottom, and even this far down you can see the starshine: all soft and heavy on your skin like a hand on your shoulder, like a ladder pointed upward, and you climb.   A friend touches your face and says, You look alive, and I’ve missed you. And darling, wandering astronaut— you are alive.

FREEDOM LIKE THE BOAT by Ashe Vernon

(You can commission a poem like this one here)

[gofuckyourselfffffffffffff-deac]

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living, I want to know what you ache for. It doesn’t interest me how old you are, I want to know if you are willing to risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine. It doesn’t interest me where you live or how rich you are, I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and be sweet to the ones you love. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and truly like the company you keep in the empty moments of your life.

Jon Blais  (via fallingintovertigo)

[shadow-writer-deactivated202111]

In No Particular Order.

I want to know more about you.

No, not the name of your home town, or where you went to school, or whether or not you have brothers and sisters.

I want to know if your brows furrow when you think, and if your eyes change color to match your clothes. I want to know how many pillows you use when you sleep, and the last thought in your head before you do. I want to know what makes you cry, and if you ever pray. I want to know the distance between your shoulder blades, and if they freckle in the sun. I want to know if your hands are rough or smooth, and if there is a downy tuft at the small of your back. I want to know if you sing in the shower, and the scent of your shampoo. I want to know your unspeakable fantasies, and if you ever feel afraid.

But more than anything, I want to know if you want to know about me too.

[lettersfrompnw]

[small--stories-deactivated20121]

to stay.

teach me how to linger. 

show me that nothing that means anything exists outside of the circumference of your arms.  help me to learn to measure time  in deep moans and soft sighs.  and when noon has turned to night,  feed me by mouth,  and convince me to stay.

[vertigofalling]

I never knew what it was to love selflessly until I learned how to hold your hand from a thousand miles away.

[small--stories-deactivated20121]

it would be enough to know that some part of you has been changed by some part of me.

[vertigofalling]

The way you make me feel is like smelling fresh grass or being in the back of a convertible under the stars. Or returning home from a long trip or just driving with no destination in the summer. It’s like the feeling you get when you get an ‘A’ on your report card and your parents tell you how proud they are. Or when you hear your family laugh together. It’s like when you’re outside on a hot summer day and you have a cold glass of water or when you talk to an old friend after a month or two, yet the two of you are still as close as ever. It’s like the feeling you get when you hear your favorite childhood song on the radio for the first time in years, you turn it up and feel so alive. Or lying in bed watching a snow storm, knowing you don’t have to get up for hours and just lay in the warmth of your comforters for hours. It’s the way your stomach flip flops during your first kiss, or how your body feels when you take off in an airplane for the first time. Or when you drive around in the front seat of a car that belongs to the boy you like and even though you should feel scared beyond control because he’s driving so fast and stupid, you feel safe and alive. 

Yeah, that feeling.

[merryandtragical]

If there were a dictionary dedicated to all the variations and subtle nuances of love, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so conflicted when I look at you. You, sprawled out on my living room couch as dawn comes in under the blinds and I allow time to pass before interrupting your sleep. We aren’t rare. We exist in the category of everyday things; friends driving slowly on a Saturday afternoon, or two people holding on to each other in an airport. These things happen in high frequency, but it is in these moments, halfway between your start point and your destination in that car on that Saturday afternoon, when you look over and realize that you feel love for the person sitting next to you. Because the beautiful things in our life aren’t always rare or extraordinary.

(via fallingintovertigo)

[only-drawing2]

[thelandlockedmariner-deactivate]

I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals.

Salvador Plascencia (via fallingintovertigo)

[loveyourquotes]

[justfuckinleavemealone]

Nostaglia: i

But if you were to do it now, if you were to knock on my door at 2am with my favourite chocolate bar and a half-empty box of tobacco

I would still kiss your smoky lips grab your tattooed wrist and sleepily drag you to my bed all over again

sleepily drag you to my bed and make a fort out of the duvet find ways to live in the feathers and never let you go.

[connotativewords]

I wanted the world to know about the girl who set fire to my soul when I was sure that it was nothing more than a block of ice. I wanted the world to see how she made me believe that I was capable of putting someone else’s happiness before my own. I wanted the world to understand why I feared the possibility of never being able to feel the way I did for her towards anyone else. I wanted the world to experience the shortness of breath that I had every time she walked into a room as if it was the first time we met. I wanted the world to feel how much it tore me apart when she looked in my direction, only to think that she saw right through me. All I wanted was for the world to know about the girl whom I fell silently, madly, regretfully, and painfully in love with – Since I never really could find the courage to tell her myself.

Connotativewords | jl | How You’ll Never Know (via connotativewords)

[walterblakeknoblock]

I still think about you. I still sometimes think you’ll find something funny and practice how I’ll say it on the phone in my head for the few moments before I remember. Ex-smokers will flick their index to their middle finger trying to ash a phantom cigarette and that’s how I feel when I’m in my bed and I reach my left hand over and rub the fabric against my palm instead of feeling your skin.

Walter Blake Knoblock (via walterblakeknoblock)