(via meerweh)
(via meerweh)
Remember all the things we wanted.
Now all our memories, they’re haunted.
We were always meant to say goodbye.
Even with our fists held high,
It never would have worked out right.
We were never meant for do or die.
(via meerweh)
F. Scott Fitzgerald, in 1920, after marrying Zelda and publishing This Side of Paradise.
This isn’t torture.
Torture happens in small, dark rooms in countries with names you struggle to spell.
This is just mildly unpleasant.
This isn’t heroism.
Heroism happens in churches that are also schools, performed by teachers with no names and no place to stay.
This is just a good deed for the day.
This isn’t loss.
Loss happens on fields filled with poppies, in hospitals buzzing with flies, in distant deserts and late at night when there’s no good reason for the phone to ring.
This is just longing.
This isn’t important.
Important happens on bended knees and is breathed on last breaths with hands clutched tight, hearts tighter.
This is just a distraction.
(via meerweh)
You constantly look for a sign and when it’s given to you and you don’t like the answer, you call it a coincidence. There are no coincidences.
I don’t know if you felt that or not.
But it felt like two people kissing after hours of thinking about it.
It felt like two people talking after nights of silence.
It felt like two people touching after weeks of being numb.
It felt like two people facing each other after months of looking away.
It felt like two people in love after years of being alone.
And it felt like two people meeting each other, after an entire lifetime of not meeting each other.
If you knew how much trouble the universe went to for us to be here, now, standing in front of each other, you’d know we’re going to have to be careful.
Plankton and plants and canals, a hundred suns, a thousand sailing ships, ten thousand civilizations, a million, million, million first kisses from all our mothers and fathers.
We owe it to them, to be careful.
Something has moved and bumped the cradle of everything. The world is out of sync. Birds fly backwards and the fish swim through the air. Hours pass like seconds and seconds pass like hours. The light fades before the sun leaves. The stars shine before the night falls. I am here early. You are here late.
It weeps for you late at night, when sleep does not come easily. It weeps for the one you miss. It weeps for the dreams on the tips of your fingers. It weeps for appointments missed and it weeps for the tears in your pillow. It weeps for the silence and it weeps for the noise. It weeps for formal letters where once, language was spoken as close to your ear as possible. It weeps for betrayal, intended or not. It weeps for the friends you once were. It weeps for the colours faded. It weeps for sunrise. It weeps for a death in the family and it weeps when a baby is born. It weeps for the last time you touched. It weeps for words that can never be taken back. It weeps so hard and so much and so often. So you don’t have to. So you can carry on. It weeps for you. When you have run out of weeping.
If you’ve got the time, we can play a game. It’s easy. We just see if I’m the same shape as the space you have inside you. If everything fits, we both win. If it doesn’t, don’t force it. That’s how you get splinters in your heart.
All persons entering a heart do so at their own risk. Management can and will be held responsible for any loss, love, theft, ambition or personal injury. Please take care of your belongings. Please take care of the way you look at me. No roller skating, kissing, smoking, fingers through hair, 3am phone calls, stained letters, littering, unfeeling feelings, a smell left on a pillow, doors slammed, lyrics whispered, or loitering. Thank you.