#soft melancholy

[satanoperkele]

The night always listens

[bloody-meadowz]

𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓽

[fleurnymph]

η αρμύρα της θάλασσας φιλούσε τα κορμιά μας και ζήλευαν των χειλιών μας οι πόθοι,ζήλευαν ώσπου να γευτούν από το ηλιοβαμμενο δέρμα,το καλοκαίρι και τον έρωτα,τη γλύκα και τη σπίθα της νιότης που φλεγόταν μέσα στην καρδιά μας

[kertverlaine]

my oc seraphim

[sana-afterhours]

|| Because, love is space to exist.||

"No matter how hard I'd have to bend, no matter how far I'd have to collect my rays, I'll leave spaces for you, my love, to simply exist."

-sana-Afterhours.

[nonefrancesca]

Sembra l’inizio di una storia che non so ancora scrivere.

Forse non è un inizio.

Forse è solo quel momento in cui tutto è possibile, e niente accade.

A volte il paesaggio sembra aspettare con te.

Come se anche lui cercasse le parole giuste.

Di quelle storie che non sai se raccontano un sogno o una perdita.

È una frase lasciata in sospeso.

Tu decidi se è un addio o un prologo.

~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~~•~~

Feels like the beginning of a story I don’t know how to write yet.

Maybe it’s not a beginning.

Maybe it’s just that moment when anything is possible, and nothing happens.

Sometimes the landscape waits with you.

As if it's also searching for the right words.

The kind of story you’re never sure if it’s about a dream or a loss.

It’s an unfinished sentence.

You decide if it’s a goodbye or a prologue.

[vanpeltfoto]

Some absences light up the night more than any streetlamp ever could.

(Photo: d.)

INSTAGRAM

[bhavna-writes]

The Girl Next Door

The birds resumed chirping, the glass room displaying the miniature garden through the blinds. Plucking oranges to uphold the market’s legacy of the national fruit. Olivia had woken up earlier than usual.

The light tapping of feet on the porch was made out. Nursing the olives — rather fresh for this month — while the rest of the neighbourhood were allergic to her unmatched enthusiasm. In spite of that, Olivia and yearning likely maneuvered into happy hours.

The tagline girl next door was imprinted on her. Morning playlist reduced to a volume incapable of disturbing a flatmate.

“Oopsie daisy.” A pot displaced. Gathering the item, rearranging it on the balcony, earning a pat on the back.

August had misplaced her room number in his passwords folder. When he visited, the numbers used to come to him like mental math. Gently fed, mixing dough — the sugar melted into her nuzzles.

The living room — a hideout for binge-watching House of Guinness. Newspapers unmarred on the foyer. He cherished how she giggled when resting on his shoulder.

They dated for a brief patch. He retired to his apartment when it concluded. The breakup invited anticipated questions.

We had other priorities — an expected response.

If only they had been informed about how Olivia drenched his sweatshirt, sobbing muffled. His conscience prodded:

Only an idiot would let her go.

The wimp as he was, August did.

Hibernation elapsed. The lily barrette he tucked into her pashmina loosely clung on.

“I want Olivia back.”