#old lover

[littlebigconfessions]

the larry hate ask is really funny to me because my partner said he was bad once. like attractive and honestly I think he’s pathetic enough for that to be warranted

.

[theycallmesquishy]

It is interesting, that your dark hair and blue eyes decided to come back. After so many years of not a word, you’re here. You’ve tried not laughing at my jokes, you still refuse to see me but I know you want to. Can I tell you a secret? I never really talked about you to anyone I was with. I was afraid if I did they’d see I was longing. Longing for you. And here you are. So close what do I do with that? I’ll be patient. But darlin you’re torturing me with how close you are and I cant even say “I miss you.” So instead I ask you about art and your mundane tasks.

“Hang out sometime.” I say

“Maybe” you reply.

So not today. But maybe soon. And I think I’m okay with that.

[darlinafterdark]

Your hands trail over the worn skin along his face, his neck, his chest. The lines tell countless stories from a time before you. Stories you may never know. You don’t mind; you simply want to share a few with him now.

[imagine-loki]

Imagine someone was tracking Loki after Old Asgard was destroyed and it turns out to be his long-lost daughter from an old lover.

[mvaljean525]

I am trying to remember the lyrics of old songs                                                            I’ve forgotten, mostly I am trying to remember one-hit wonders, hymns,                                              and musicals like West Side Story. Singing over and over what I can recall, I hum remnants on                                                             buses and in the car.

I am so often alone these days with echoes of these old songs                                                          and my ghosted lovers. I am so often alone that I can almost hear it, can almost feel                                                        the half-touch of others, can almost taste the licked clean spine of the melody I’ve lost.

I remember the records rubbed with static and the needle                                                                     gathering dust. I remember the taste of a mouth so sudden and still cold from                                                                         wintry gusts. It seemed incredible then — a favorite song, a love found.                                                                It wasn't, after all.

Days later, while vacuuming, the lyrics come without thinking. Days later, I think I see my old lover in a café but don’t,                                                                        how pleasing it was to think it was him, to finally sing that song.

This is the way of all amplitude: we need the brightness                                                                         to die some. This is the way of love and music: it plays like a god and                                                                       then is done. Do I feel better remembering, knowing for certain                                                                       what’s gone?

----

Blues for Almost Forgotten Music

Roxane Beth Johnson

----

Graphic - François Martin-Kavel 1861-1931

[agirlwithstars4eyes]

“Why are old lovers able to become friends? Two reasons. They never truly loved each other, or they love each other still. “

-Whitney Otto

[dottiechan]

I hate admitting that in your life, I was used as a plot device disguised as a romantic interest. I was there only to further your story. To give it depth. To give it meaning. To make you the hero who has yet another woman in his life who he has to sacrifice in order to reach his final destination. But it's life, and there was no audience except for the one you imagined in your head. Your perfect performance, the final twist of a knife, the last teardrops, your uttered words closing the coffin over our dead love as nails embedded in oak - I was the only one to see it. To hear it. To mull it over in guilty, heartbroken, miserable silence. I am still the only one who sees it every now and then.

And it's been 3 years. What an unforgettable show you'd put on. All for you and me. But more for yourself.

Some people need suffering to feel alive, and for a long time, I thought I was the same. Your need for pain wrecked me so badly that I couldn't heal still - I'm terrified of love, of intimacy, of holding someone's hand. I panic when I think of going on a first date with someone. I flinch when I'm touched unexpectedly. And yet I'm starved for it all because it's in my nature to crave love. You made me into something I'm not. I don't live for pain. I don't want to. And yet I did for 3 whole years now, fighting my true nature every step of the way because you taught me pain. You taught me how to self-harm emotionally. And I've been carving away at my soul for long enough. Too long. I'm afraid of not having anything left of me sometimes.

But the sun shines and my dog wags his tail and a child giggles as he looks into my eyes and I have to smile. And then I know I still have some parts of me left. Some parts that live for the sake of living. For the sake of making others happy. For making each moment count.

I sometimes wanted to make you pay for all you've done. But that would only give you a sick, guilty pleasure. You like the pain. No, I wish you nothing but good fortune. Nothing but strong winds catching in your sails. Nothing but love and honesty and truth in the darkest of your hours.

It's been 3 years and I still think of you. And I still think of the way we used to be. But then my troubled heart, like the raging, frothing waves of an ocean calming and smoothing over, realises that being alone in peace and tranquil joy is better than having you and the pain that follows you around like a shadowy companion. You've been my plague, my disease for far too long.

No more.