Don't Believe Nostalgia, It Blurs The Edges Of Knives And Makes Them Look Like Candles.

Michael Cunningham, from “The Hours”

Ah, fine literature.

Pt.2

That awkward moment when you’re like “ahhh that was grooming” ????

Friday nights & Clandestines

The world is small when it is limited to your own room

And the thick smoke of his endless cigarettes

And cobwebs on the framed pictures of the lovers time buried/

The furniture is dusty with ashes of my past, but he doesn't mind that

He's okay with the fact

that we'll never last and the passion will wilt away like his cigarettes/

2 A.M. and Loving in adagio

Flesh meshing with mine and our heartbeats synchronised

We dont have to speak to communicate

As every caress is open to interpret

We are in separate wonderlands/

The night is unfurling and I wonder if our obscenity woke up the sun but

I cannot think clear because I am inebriated on the cadence of his voice and my head is on his chest

And I listen to him like I listen to that damned song/

Carefully/ intently/ on repeat

From start to finish.

The soundtrack is coming to an end

And so is his last cigarette

I will lay on his side of the bed and watch him leave

But the smoke will stay

And I won't open any windows

I'd let me suffocate/

I'm a writer before I'm a mistress

Hence I'll write love confessions with the remains of our night

And my fingers in the ashtray

Oh how I envied your cigarettes as they

Kiss your mouth more than I do/

But it's okay, you suck the life out of both of us.

me looking at the person i like: i am enamored even with the way your fingers move, with the way the light plays on your skin, with your freckles and your smile and your laughter, with your voice, with how you get around the things you love, with your humor,  me aloud: what’s up asshole

WOW WOW WOW

Kostel svatého Jiří (St. George’s Church) also known as "ghost church" in Luková, Czech Republic

no you live in a society. i live alone in the city befriending houses and mourned when one of them was painted hideously yellow

i love when you hear a song and you're like “oh id absolutely stumble through the snow bleeding from a knife stuck in my gut to this”

love letter to fanny brawne, john keats