1. The night that I met you, I was incredibly rude. However, you still chose to learn my name and then you went so far as to start mumbling it in your sleep through a soft smile. That is the reason I love myself.
2. One of my earliest memories of you is waking up with the flash of a camera washing my face clean of sleep. I knew then that you were a lot like the sunrise.
3. The first night you held my hand, I was shocked by how cold your skin was. For some reason I thought it’d be burning hot, but I am glad that you had cool palms and an icy chest.
4. The first haiku I ever wrote wasn’t even about you but it should’ve been. All seventeen syllables were so perfect when they were fresh on your skin. Maybe that is why when you died, a piece of me did too.
5. You told me that you wanted to love me forever and at the time I thought that it meant you would’ve liked to marry me. It actually meant you wanted to still call me yours even in your dying breath. I am honored to be your last love, my dear.
6. To compensate for not being my first kiss, you gave me my first cigarette so that every drag I ever took would stick in my throat and taste like a memory or a kiss, sitting there nostalgic and making me shiver. I would gladly get lung cancer for you, I believe.
7. I think you knew that you weren’t going to say with me very long. It’s okay, though, because I think that I knew too. You spoke in the past tense, even regarding the future. You were a poetic person, but that wasn’t a poetic quality of yours. It was dismal, you know.
8. I used to wear black a lot, as did you. (And not because it is slimming.) Wearing such a dark colored ensemble to your funeral would have been appropriate, but I couldn’t lift myself out of my freezing bath water full of blood in time. I hope you’re not upset that I did not sing you my final goodbyes.
9. I wish I had your name tattooed on my collar bone like you’ve got my name on your arm; but then again, white scars last like black ink, do they not? I bleed for you, oh God.
10. My mother looks at my blood shot eyes and still doesn’t ask me about you. No idea who you are, she hasn’t. But oh I do wonder if I scream your name in my sleep or if she’s heard me mumble your name. Can you tell me please if she knows that you are why I cry? If she knows that you exist? I love you but I hope she is still ignorant, honestly.
11. I would never blame you for not bloodying your knuckles when you saw me sink to the ground howling in pain. My friends would not understand but the sound of your grunting could have stung worse than a slap. You understood.
12. Your voice always reminded me of wine. Now that I cannot remember what your voice sounded like, I choke on bottles of wine hoping to find your cadence glued the the thick glass at the bottom. It is never there. Death has taken all my sensory knowledge of you away, I can’t even remember the exact shade of your eyes. Isn’t that sad?
13. The way you threw your head back when you took shots was a little like how I let mine fall against the wall as your alcohol doused mouth whispered on my neck. I keep every secret I am told because if I didn’t it would be like betraying you.
14. I try to write things that remind me of you but my vocabulary will never be large enough. And so I started to try and draw you but my scarred little hands could never capture or create anything remotely as beautiful as you. I am sorry that you loved me so much, and I do not question that you did. Forgive me.
15. You used to cover my eyes when someone around me did something I didn’t agree with. (Drugs were bad, I thought that firmly.) I thought your protection of me was beautiful. Why did you stop? Was it because I have learned so well to protect, trust, and love myself? It’s because of you.
16. It makes me sad that you aren’t here to watch me grow or kiss me goodnight. I hope you are watching me. I believe in heaven simply because I believe in you. That idea will someday bring me happiness instead of mediocre hope.
Lily Pads // W.J
Inspired by this prompt(via cascadingletters)
You stand between us all,
Playing a game of pick-and-choose.
You say you love her,
And you love her,
And you love me.
OK, not ‘love’ as such.
But you feel something, right?
It’s not much of a love square,
But more of leaping across lily pads,
Back and forth, to her, to her, to me.
Back to me.
I’m not sure whether to hold on
To your insinuations of interest
Or move on, find someone more stable.
I guess I’ve always felt the need
To stick around, and find out
If there might be something in your heart
For now, I’m just another piece to your game,
And though sometimes it hurts,
And sometimes it’s irritating,
The thought of your lips on mine
Shields any doubts.
You may go back and forth, to her,
And to her,
But I guess my biggest wish
Is that you still come back
Waiting an eternity
For what will last a lifetime
Compelled by brutal honesty
To speak our helpless minds
Holding the past like dust in our hands
Chasing the future
In this foreign land
Dreaming dreams that only we understand
Hear my desperate plea
My silent command
3 months ago she told you her story. You watched the way her lips moved when she spoke and how she covered her mouth when she laughed. You weren’t sure why she did that, you thought her smile was beautiful.
If only she knew.
You thought about the first time you heard her name, not knowing the impact that it would have on your life.
You looked back on the moment that had changed you forever, when you realized you were deeply & madly in love with her.
But you never noticed the first time you hurt her. She cried herself to sleep. The first time you broke your promise was the first time she realized she couldn’t trust you.
Then there was that day, when you died a little inside while she was in the middle of her sentence and you knew exactly where it was going. She told you that loving you was like loving the sea, peaceful but violent and she didn’t feel like drowning anymore.
You thought about her laugh again.
She took your breath away and now you cant breathe, because while you were loving her..she was imagining a world without you.
Be the pen that writes our history. Be the ink that refuses to be erased.
IF YOU ARE THE TYPE OF GUY THAT KISSES A GIRL ON THE TOP OF THE HEAD WHEN YOU HUG THEM THEN YOU ARE DOING IT RIGHT MY FRIEND
Un rêveur est quel qu’un qui continue de rêver malgré des vérités qui le déchirent sans cesse. Il regarde les étoiles lorsqu’il se noie.
Although the players that you see
Should work in perfect harmony,
They’re such a temperamental crew
It’s quite surprising when they do:
The violins and other strings
Believe they have the rights of kings
And look down on the Brasses as
Loud pigs who should be playing jazz;