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I know you’re probably fine,

but I can’t help but wonder. I really hope you’re okay.

12.06.13 ♥ 0

I was tired of living a life that didn’t feel like it was mine anymore. I was a stranger in my own reality.

11.16.13 ♥ 1

“Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.”
Vladimir Nabokov, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight

11.16.13 ♥ 12
I’m okay now. I have been for some time. It took me awhile while you seemed to get over it faster. I’ve always been a slow and steady type and you were always half out the door. I was safe and caution and you were dangerous and off the deep end.  We bled while revealed within and outwards. Some sights cannot be unseen. Some words cannot be forgotten or taken back. Some things brought us together. Some things separated us. It’s not practical or right to point things when we know we both got scars. A badge of honour not quite. A notch on the bedpost doesn’t appear so. A piece of shared history in one another’s book shelf perhaps. Yes, you broke my heart, but I remember for a time, you did glue the pieces, too. We tear, we mend. Things that end had beginnings, as well. We forget and we remember. SO much has happened, so much was supposed to happen. We cannot change our past, but there is still the future. Oh well, oh well. I suppose in time, we both will be well.

I’m okay now. I have been for some time. It took me awhile while you seemed to get over it faster. I’ve always been a slow and steady type and you were always half out the door. I was safe and caution and you were dangerous and off the deep end.  We bled while revealed within and outwards. Some sights cannot be unseen. Some words cannot be forgotten or taken back. Some things brought us together. Some things separated us. It’s not practical or right to point things when we know we both got scars. A badge of honour not quite. A notch on the bedpost doesn’t appear so. A piece of shared history in one another’s book shelf perhaps. Yes, you broke my heart, but I remember for a time, you did glue the pieces, too. We tear, we mend. Things that end had beginnings, as well. We forget and we remember. SO much has happened, so much was supposed to happen. We cannot change our past, but there is still the future. Oh well, oh well. I suppose in time, we both will be well.

Now’s a present for someone else.

Who says we all get happily ever afters?

And yet I adore him. I think he’s quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.

— Vladimir Nabokov

11.16.13 ♥ 43

a PIECE of mind

I still wear your shirt sometimes. It has become increasingly worn by each use, but I don’t mind. Sometimes, I wonder if you still wear that gray scarf I got you almost four Christmases ago. How I wonder if I am ever a fixture in your mind like I used to be. I hope you don’t mind.

11.16.13 ♥ 2
No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.

— Vladmir Nabokov

11.16.13 ♥ 53
And my head told my heart, “Let love grow”. But my heart told my head, “This time no, this time no.”

And my head told my heart, “Let love grow”. But my heart told my head, “This time no, this time no.”

11.16.13 ♥ 3

Dream On

I close my eyes, and you’re back in my life. A double take in exchange for a way belated second chance.  Brown to black to blonde to who knows? After all, you were the only one that could ever rival me. Your face hidden in shadows sometimes, but you always find to a way to resurface. I look at the ground first, too hesitant to speak, too reluctant to leave again. Our once always fluid conversation is replaced with gaps and silence. After much delayed, the ice begins to melt. “Delicate.” Delicate has always been our real adjective. Sometimes, the conversation gets awkward and brief. Sometimes, it’s aggressive and timid then ends politely and sincere. Sometimes, it’s like we never left, never left one another. Sometimes, we even hug like we used. My head still fits perfectly by your shoulder. Your chin nuzzles never felt better.  Everything is perfect by definition. In a blink of the eye, the too dream to be a reality is proven to be just that, a dream. I’d lie if I said, I wasn’t disappointed. To feel your touch again, to hear your voice, to be beside you, to be with you once more are treasures I wouldn’t turn down so easily anymore. I look at my phone and I shake my head though. I know better by now by being my worse then. Things in hindsight are easier and clearer. At the time, I was too stuck in another past. Now’s a day for another chance perhaps, but I will have to dance with someone else, as do you. I can shut my eyes for a little bit, but it will never change the all between us and what has happened. Whether I see you sometime in the future or never again, I know we will always have our history and the dreams in-between.

11.16.13 ♥ 0

Wasted on fixing all the problems you made in your own head.

11.16.13 ♥ 19

Too Much

dearoldlove:

You don’t love me and that’s ok, but is it too much to ask that we just grow platonically old together?

11.05.13 ♥ 256

Wasted

dearoldlove:

I still remember the moments I feared you would leave, and how much time I wasted on that while you were still here.

My reaction whenever someone tells me I’m too old to dress up for Halloween and Trick-or-Treating:

image

10.31.13 ♥ 2