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wearywater - - "There are worse things to be, I suppose. "View -
thedustwhispered - - "cities, pt. 2 the city breathes smoke into the night, ghosts lit through the windows of seedy bars and other desperate places. her red lips stretched in a wolf’s smile are no consolation you can fathom. you find yourself in a crouch, knees collapsing like brief empires. strangers with hollow eyes cry emergency, beckon for resurrection. here, filtering breaths through your hands, every second spreads down your back like a burning forest. no angels survive in war zones like these. "View -
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the-original-lovelace - - "”If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free; Angels alone, that soar above, Know not such liberty” ~Richard Lovelace "View -
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photicaphotic - - "I should spend every moment kissing you. For all the times I couldn’t, for all the nights I spent tossing and turning wishing for nothing more than the scent of you beside me, and the freedom to kiss your temple while you slept, unaware of the roiling and growing and burning of my love and my longing. "View -
zoejo - - "That night. The night. It will always be cased in resin, perfectly preserved; the perfect night. We both indulged in some psychedelics that night. Though, your trip was going downhill while mine soared. I could feel your uncomfortableness. It pulsed out to me like radio waves. You went away to try and purge yourself of the fungus that was tormenting you. You came back, still with fear painted on your face. You were not free from the spores. You said that they still had you in the palm of their hands. So we left, to the outdoors. As soon as the cool air hit my lungs, I felt intertwined, connected; to everything. I felt the life of everything pulse and breathe. I looked over to you, and some relief seemed to crawl upon your face. We walked all over campus. I had not a clue where my feet were taking me, but they seemed to know. I was a passenger to my own body. My eyes took in the dark night, glistening with water droplets from the morning. Even in the death of the end of fall, there was still life. Lights glowed and danced, colors popped out from all depths of the spectrum. We walked, and followed to wherever my feet led us. For hours we wandered, lost in the tranquility. We crossed a bridge, and you took my hand. Even in my state of mind, I knew this was monumental for you. Hand holding was not one of the fonder things on your list, so I treasured how your hand encased mine. So together we walked. Back to my room, hand in hand. We hardly noticed the cold, though inside my room the warmth blanketed us. We lay on the bed, your head on my chest, looking at nothing but each other. You sit up, eyes still locked on mine. In that moment, I swear I felt your soul. I was so connected to you, and you to I. And in that moment, you whispered, “I love you.” "View -
caitlinmonster - - "Something went sick with us. It was always wilting and curling brown, but the bottom fell out sooner than I had expected. I saw sparkling into tens and twenties of years in the future, and I had no idea how wrong I was. Love is something with spikes that you put down your throat. Time repeats. Time repeats itself. I have given myself over and I have given myself over and over again. I am done with being done. I am looking for something cleaner than you. I am breathing my own breath now, never yours. "View -
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sickheart5 - - "Well, we’re all wounded. We carry our wounds around with us through life, and eventually they kill us. Things happen that leave a mark in space, in time. In us. (Six feet under) "View -
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beppyweppy - - "Silence bears down; a cacophony of loneliness as I sit, surrounded by empty canvases and a palette full of inarticulate desire. Thunder threatens to break the hazy light of seeming calm as it settles into the night air, reminding me to close my window. But the weight of emptiness paralyzes my limbs, though my hand closes around a paintbrush. And though I sit bound by stillness, colors dance behind open lids to the beat of my heart pulsing in my left wrist: strokes of crimson regret fading in and out under the overlay of a wistful moon’s azure reflection. But the brightest patterns dissipate into hesitation before my tired fingers can distinguish their form. And I remain alone, but for the hum of night whistling through my open window, and a lap-full of blank canvas: a testament to indecision. "View -
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