and the truth is i have formed a really shitty habit of hiding behind ideas to shield myself of the reality of things. things meaning love. love meaning the coffee color of your eyes, the thickness of your eyelashes, the way you’re so sure of yourself you hardly think before you speak. and the truth is you seem so dangerously easy to fall in love with. and honestly, i want to take that risk but then again i don’t. i’m afraid i won’t be enough for you, or maybe i’ll be too much, because for all of my life i have hovered between the empty, haunting space between the two. sometimes i think i’m impossible to fall in love with because no one has really tried to love me. and i don’t mean the “good morning” text type of love, or the kissing at the right time type of love, or the asking if i have a snapchat type of love. no, i mean the drunk voicemails at 3am type of love, or the trace the moles on my arm like they are constellations in a bursting sky type of love, or the pouring your heart out when the words grow too large to hold inside type of love. i’ve been trying to convince myself that type of love is only for movie scenes and book protagonists but shit, i’d be lying if i said i don’t hope that someone would prove me wrong. there has to be something more out there than predictable dates or generic “i love you” texts or the exhausting cycle of getting to know someone and then having them leave without leaving anything more than bruises and memories. i have tried to drown the romantic in myself so many times but every time i lay eyes on you, or your name pops up on my phone, or you laugh in that loud, confident way of yours, it comes back up gasping for air. it keeps on begging for someone to help keep it afloat. and the truth is i’m so fucking tired of a cycle of almosts— as in, we almost worked out, we almost made it, i almost loved them, they almost fell in love with me. i’m tired of my fantasies meeting reality half way. i’m tired of mediocre kisses and fingertips that hold no electricity or love that holds no weight. and fuck, maybe we don’t have to last forever, maybe you don’t have to be the love of my life and maybe i don’t have to be the love of yours. maybe you can just show me something. something i haven’t seen before. something large, aching, real, fuck, something worth my time and my energy and my attention. maybe that’s all i need right now. maybe that’s all i ever wanted all along. and the truth is i have formed a really shitty habit of hiding behind ideas to shield myself of the reality of things. but i’m really tired of hiding. i’m willing to take the risk if that means i’ll save myself a single more moment about wondering what the reality of love feels like.
kianamaiart
izzy806
romaincrisis
2087
gracieabrams
prguitarman
