I remember the first time I ever saw you.
The first time your voice had a body, and you were real.
And we were real.
Your puppy kissed my face even before you did, and I sensed your jealousy.
I had made home in between your sheets, and was held tightly in your arms, and you kissed my cheek and planted love in every ugly part of me.
I miss you.
“Yes. Everything. All the hard stuff. And the sad stuff. And the common things. And all your likes and dislikes. And what makes you laugh. And how you laugh. And all your different laughs. And how you see the world. And your views on things I see differently. And what you like on your ice cream. And how I can make you smile when you’re upset with me. And things you do when no ones watching. I’m telling you babe, everything.”
“you’re going to fall in love with a girl with hair a little longer than mine, another writer-type with all sorts of ideas about things but perhaps a little less aggressive about them, you’re going to kiss her in the ways i taught you and you’re going to figure out some new ways too and when the two of you have sex, she will be just a little bit better at it than i ever have been you’re going to fall in love with a girl that smells good enough you bury your face in the curve of her neck and her tummy will never growl like
mine always did. she’ll be deep and mysterious but she won’t come with the heavy past sitting on her shoulders. she won’t ever keep you awake with worry. she’ll always text you back
and never bite too hard and never act in a way she can’t explain later. she will not cry when she gets drunk, she’ll just fall asleep beside you.
you’ll fight with her sometimes because all couples fight but it won’t be with the teeth and claws that we had, it will be almost gentle, it will be over before it really gets going you’re going to love her until you’re no longer really sure if what we had was all that special. you’ll start badmouthing me to all your friends. you’ll forget about me in most moments and eventually you won’t even be able to tell someone what our first date was or our first kiss or even if you fucked me
the last time that we spoke. i’ll just be gone to you, just a memory of a memory, a girl with dark eyes, a half-capable poet, some word on your tongue you’re no longer sure of but you remember that you used to know it. i will no longer be important.”
— “I’m still holding out hope that somehow someway we’ll end up together in the end…” /// r.i.d (via c-oquetry)
“Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breath in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.”
“It’s getting bad again,” she wrote.
Your face is finding its way back into my dreams,
And staying awake is getting harder to do.
I find traces of your words sprawled out on my skin;
Nothing is sharp enough to carve them out.
Your voice was kept in a jar beside my bed,
Shattered, I step on a shard each time I move.
I cannot rid your presence from my being.
“It’s getting bad again.”
It’s getting bad again.
Darkened half circles crowd below my eyelids;
I cannot blink back the tears.
My palms sweat pools and my blood is boiling;
I cannot pick my chin up above the waters.
It’s getting bad again.
And I’m sure what to do about it.
I fell in love with the lazy morning kisses, the harsh movie critiques, and the weird sense of humor. But I stayed because of all the I miss you’s when I was sitting on the other side of the bed, the kisses with tears between your lips, and the promise that you would still love me in the morning.
