Aug 18, 2015
Being in love with a writer wasn't a poetic struggle of desperation, it was the unbecoming of something magnificent and the embodiment of goodbye. It was the dullest tug of war sheltered in your heart on a dangerous battle field. It was being able to read between the lines of a forgotten memory, it was playing the waiting game when he wasn't sure what he wanted. Being in love with a writer was the unseen, forsaken foreshadowing spanning out in a timeline with nothing written on it. It was being able to see the nothing in his eyes but feeling the color of his heart, and it was understanding that even though his words were beautiful his mind was not.
