you want passion. @realesthingyoueverdid - Tumblr Blog

Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America

The branches of trees outside her bay window danced in the breeze, a mottled yellow-green waving as though in silent goodbye before they blended into reds and golds in a way that was always reminiscent of that last hour of daylight, that high school parking lot, the smell of the ocean by the university and endings and beginnings that collected like leaves on the pavement.

They usually reminded her of those reds. Of the blush that flushed her face when she squeezed someone else’s warm hand as the breezes turned to chill, borrowed checkered flannel and ruddied, grinning cheeks disguised under a slightly too-long beard. Usually, the crunch underfoot meant work boots paired with bright sports jerseys and dawn stretching out, inky and languid over maroon cotton sheets on untimed Sunday mornings.

But not this year. Fall this year was golden.

Now, fall was the amber of pumpkin ale in her mittened hand clinking raucously with her best friend on a Saturday afternoon, hungover flapjacks flipping the next day as noon burned on. Now, it meant her own sweaters of aurum and rust, burning ginger candles on the stovetop filling the apartment with sweet scents aside natural light and burnished, wood floors growing more familiar with each footfall.

Usually falling leaves made her lonely; this year, now, was a lovely reminder, an indication of the afterglow that the rest of the year had grown her into—what once was burning red now glowed gold as October daylight.

— #301; excerpt from a book I’ll never write • daylight

realesthingyoueverdid

The branches of trees outside her bay window danced in the breeze, a mottled yellow-green waving as though in silent goodbye before they blended into reds and golds in a way that was always reminiscent of that last hour of daylight, that high school parking lot, the smell of the ocean by the university and endings and beginnings that collected like leaves on the pavement.

They usually reminded her of those reds. Of the blush that flushed her face when she squeezed someone else’s warm hand as the breezes turned to chill, borrowed checkered flannel and ruddied, grinning cheeks disguised under a slightly too-long beard. Usually, the crunch underfoot meant work boots paired with bright sports jerseys and dawn stretching out, inky and languid over maroon cotton sheets on untimed Sunday mornings.

But not this year. Fall this year was golden.

Now, fall was the amber of pumpkin ale in her mittened hand clinking raucously with her best friend on a Saturday afternoon, hungover flapjacks flipping the next day as noon burned on. Now, it meant her own sweaters of aurum and rust, burning ginger candles on the stovetop filling the apartment with sweet scents aside natural light and burnished, wood floors growing more familiar with each footfall.

Usually falling leaves made her lonely; this year, now, was a lovely reminder, an indication of the afterglow that the rest of the year had grown her into—what once was burning red now glowed gold as October daylight.

— #301; excerpt from a book I’ll never write • daylight

ellenstudies

07.06.18 just me, Homer and an iced coffee chilling in the sun.

realesthingyoueverdid

“Do you think I can have one more kiss?

I’ll find closure on your lips, and then I’ll go. Maybe also one more breakfast, one more lunch, and one more dinner. I’ll be full and happy and we can part. But in between meals, maybe we can lie in bed one more time. One more prolonged moment where time suspends indefinitely as I rest my head on your chest. My hope is if we add up the “one mores” they will equal a lifetime and I’ll never have to get to the part where I let you go. But that’s not real, is it? There are no more one mores.

I met you when everything was new and exciting, and the possibilities of the world seem endless. And they still are… for you, for me, but not for us. Somewhere between then and now, here and there, I guess we didn’t just grow apart, we grew up.

When something breaks, if the pieces are large enough, you can fix it. Unfortunately sometimes things don’t break, they shatter. But when you let the light in, shattered glass will glitter. And in those moments when the pieces of what we were catch the sun, I’ll remember just how beautiful it was. Just how beautiful it’ll always be. Because it was US. And we were magic. Forever.”

— Someone Great

realesthingyoueverdid

“He’s solid and he’s steady like the Allegheny runs,

He knows just where he’s going and he’s proud of where he’s from. He’s one of the good ones.

Nobody does it better, oh, the way he pulls me in. I’ve known a couple bad ones but they all led me to him;

A love me like he should one, like he wrote the book one. The kind you find when you don’t even look one. Anybody can be good once, but he’s good all the time.

He’s one of the good ones, and he’s all mine.”