I used to string these lonely words together and make these empty parchments of paper come to life with the very thought of you. It was the only way I would not feel (too) guilty because I thought of you too often and I wanted to console myself with the affirmation that you were real and I…
It’s midnight now and somewhere in a November
that still exists tonight, we’re kissing each other’s knuckles
for the first time.
I’ve swallowed hearts like apricots
and I’ve watched as the juice of being in love
dripped down my chin and spread like watercolors
across my skin.
— I’ve seen what shades I feel in
when I feel in shades of
I’ve lived through seven seas of heartbreak
but I wouldn’t take any of it back
because on each shoreline I found another reason
to let someone lead me into the waves
with my eyes closed.
Do you remember how raw the night seemed
when we cracked the moon over our teeth and let its
yolk run down our throat?
Salmonella or not,
I loved you then.
It’s April now,
and there are showers, like they promised.
Driving around in the rain today,
someone told me that May would be
But fuck it. I don’t want May flowers.
I only want
|—||“Thinking About The Way You Hold Your Hands Over Flowerbeds,” Shinji Moon (via commovente)|
I have tried, countless times, to write a Dear Old Love about the time we spent together, the things we shared, the conversations we had. And every time was a painful realization that I can never sum up any element of our relationship in any number of words. That’s ironic, because you always said that our relationship was based on words. Now there is no relationship, and there are no words.