"and Perhaps It Is The Greater Grief, After All, To Be Left On Earth When Another Is Gone."

okay but what if i tell you i really like watching you read under the sun or in the rain or all curled up in warm duvet in dark winters by the fire or on a train ride back home? what if i tell you i enjoy watching your eyebrows do their little dance when the author throws another plot twist at your face or the way you bite your lips because you really can't wait to know everything about that one character who really is the hero but isn't given enough credit? what if i tell you i see you when you try to hide behind your smile? what if i tell you it's a privilege to love you?

"When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love; it is one of the moments for which the world was made."

-E.M.Forster, A Room With a View

"And I could be a pretty girl, shut up when you want me to"

last summer i was in love and this winter i miss the warmth of our time together, of songs sung to each other, of poems written to one another, of the hands held, lips kissed, reluctant goodbyes, eager hi-s, of belonging somewhere. this winter my heart is loose in my chest and it rattles every time i recognize the familiarity of a lost love. i don't miss you, i miss us.

idk why this reminds me of the dreams where my lover and i are still together and then i wake up and feel a void so profound within me that it pins me down to my bed and i have to spend all my energy in just the act of getting off it and then spend the rest of the day as a corpse.

How many times do u think achilles woke in the middle of the night to turn over to touch patroclus and wonder why he was so cold before he realized

there are days when my name lingers on the inside of your mouth; too reluctant to be explicit, too obvious to be discreet.

and it makes both of us tiptoe around each other till you say, "one last time" and spend the night in my dad's t-shirt that i always forget to bring back home. we have a hard time returning things, you and i. we make a home out of borrowed items because the reality of owning something that's just ours is scary; we are not who we wanted to be and if any of us got any closer to what we prayed for, i am not sure we'll recognize what we see. right now, i see you with my blurry vision because i can't find my glasses again and you have no idea how to look for things. you once told me you only started missing your grandma after she was buried. you do that; confess bizarre things just after coming. i don't mind it but i think i love you only when you are falling asleep beside me. the rest of the time we spend together, i nurture a mild hatred towards you so that we don't promise each other a forever we will grow to resist. well, even our hypotheticals are a calculated risk. there are days when your name lingers on the roof of my mouth so i just shove my tongue down yours so that we can never talk about anything real; reality bites, i'm sure you've noticed.

it's so important for your health and well-being to get overly attached to a fictional man who is both deeply amoral and unbelievably, pathetically sad

when my lips touch yours, i rest on your wine breath and you kiss me like it'll be a little death if we stop now. i am a fool for your touch, your subtle laugh when you playfully punch me in the heart. i am a stupid girl in a city that you love and i love the word love because it reminds me of you everytime i say it. Love. Love. I Anna you. Anna. Love. See?

Remember when Fleabag said, ""I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear EVERY morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, who to love and how to tell them."

The last line made me think about this a lot. It's okay to be dependent for a bit, rest ourselves on someone else's shoulder without feeling like we are living a cliché.

actually, growing up is feeling like i turned sixteen two days ago. i’ve been eighteen for years. fifteen year olds seem so young. wasn’t i fifteen just a few weeks ago? all my friends and i are still twelve. i’m closer to thirty then to being a baby. i never got to be a kid. i never grew past eight. i can’t talk to my mom. i want to sit in her lap forever. the week is going by so slow. an entire year has passed. i want to decide everything for myself. i need someone to tell me exactly what to do.

i can tell i'm sleep deprived bc i just made myself cry about tutankhamun and i have, like, negative interest in the kid