love
each descending peak on the lcd took you a little farther away from me
People call those imperfections, but no. That’s the good stuff.
Good Will Hunting
i’m yours
“I’m yours.” That’s what she wanted to say to him. I have been ever since we sat and spoke together. Ever since we moved past hello’s and harmless flirtation.
That first real conversation that was slightly deeper than superficial, when I caught a casual glimpse at the depth of you, the beauty of your spirit, the kindness trapped behind weary eyes. The strength earned from being a survivor. I was yours just then.
But I cannot say it. I cannot utter those two words. I would be condemned to you, you with too many monsters to take on love. Too many ghosts haunting you, too many burdens to bear. You can barely keep your head above water. The weight of this might sink you all together.
our revolution
My heart is a revolutionary cell.
A chance to believe. A weapon of creation.
My life is an opportunity to change.
Even incrementally. Even minutely. Even infinitesimally.
But, the world will not be changed by one revolutionary heart. One gypsy spirit. One wayward son. One idealistic daughter.
The world will be changed by the sum of all the hearts and spirits and sons and daughters.
As sure as she rounds the sun in a wheel of time,
She is changed.
Constantly evolving with every beating revolutionary heart.
So do not despair. Do not abandon your post.
See the strength in numbers. See the strength in time.
To be a revolutionary is not to witness the revolution.
It is to leave behind an idea, a thought, a subtle shift that can be traced even in this chaotic, spinning world.
So do not despair. Do not abandon your post.
For just as my heart is a revolutionary cell, so can yours be also.
fried chicken birthday kisses
On her birthday, he unwrapped both chicken biscuits, investigating each. And upon deciding which had the better piece of chicken, offered that one to her.
And she thought, this is what love really is.
great expectations
We spent too many years believing love shouldn’t be hard. Turns out, it’s the hardest fucking thing there is.
what happens next
That’s what I’m scared of. What happens next.
After infatuation and butterflies and obsession and absolute perfection. After intimacy and closeness and comfort and trust. After white dresses and first dances and honeymoon suites. After nesting and settling down and routines and consistency.
I’m scared of what happens next after that.
When all the things you once loved slowly start to wear you down. And you barely speak at all. Where you’re suddenly in a place of knowing one another completely and not knowing each other at all.
And the walls begin to build around you, between you, on top of you. Until you feel so trapped, it’s almost impossible to breathe.
Because you know, what happens after that. What’s coming next. We don’t even know where else to go anymore. The end is the only destination we have for this journey. And so our butterflies turn to moths, and float onward toward the end’s sullen glow.
Then we’ll shed the tears and sign the papers and be cordial and alone.
Maybe if I never do the ring or the dress or the veil or the dance, maybe then we’ll never get to what’s next. And we can stay as we are forever.
That would be just fine with me.
(Image source: High on Skinny on Tumblr)
words are like magic
(Source: tylerknott, Typewriter Series #41 by Tyler Knott Gregson)
the details
That’s what you fall in love with. Not the whole of a person. Not their general appearance. Not their entire spirit or personality or being.
It’s the details. All the infinitesimal details. The slightness of your half-smile. The face you always make when looking in the mirror.
It’s refusing to wear pants inside. And how you hold me while we try to fall asleep. Taking every opportunity to dance naked. Buying holiday candy only after the holiday is over. And never wanting to walk to the mailbox alone.
The way you say “I’m sorry.” And how you always laugh hardest at your own jokes. Your grumpiness on Sunday mornings. And your strange obsession with oscillating fans.
That’s how I always know I’m starting to care beyond the superficial. When someone asks me what I like about you. And I have no answer.
Because there isn’t a single legitimate thing I like about you. There are only one thousand details.
writeamuck 