She had a full sleeve of tattoos on her left arm, big glasses, long jungle hair. She held the metal carafe under the steamer and watched as the milk fluffed up, carefully, to silky perfection and poured it shaking her wrist leaving a perfect heart in his morning coffee. He looked at her, and thought he saw a slight blush on her cheeks. But she had moved on to the next customer. As he walked away, she glanced at his back, distracted and wishing.
The blinds were drawn shut, but through the small cracks, shafts of light shone through, reflecting the dancing particles of dust. He still had to tilt his head back to see the high ceilings and floor was covered in a thin layer of sawdust that left footprints as as he walked across it. It was just as he had left it: empty. Except at the very centre, in which a tall rectangular object stood, covered by a sheet. Tugging at its cotton sleeve, the sheet fell in billows on to the ground, spreading the sawdust up in the air and skittering across the marble. The great grandfather clock towered nearly five feet above his head, and its dark wood and solid frame demanded a certain authority.
“Hello old friend,” he sighed as he removed his jacket and swung open the key lock door, “we meet again.” He swung the pendulum to the left, and stepped inside.
i pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt over my hands to feel invisible and all you could think of to say was i love you. for the first time since the day when i disappeared in a snowstorm, i wanted nothing more than to be lost, lost in you.
My sleeve caught my tears as they tumbled down my cheeks. “No, I just have the hiccups.” Worst excuse ever, I thought to myself. I wanted to look at him, to see his expression, to know whether he believed me or not. But it was dark out, and I was the one under the street lamp. I wouldn’t be able to see him anyhow. It wasn’t worth him seeing me like this.
I like sleeves. Mostly ones that are long, and go past my wrists and on to my fingertips. I am always pulling at my sleeves to make sure they stay long, as if they’re going somewhere. I like short sleeves too, though. And even no sleeves. But long, snug ones to my wrist are the best.
I yawned into my sleeve and pulled my turtleneck above my nose. I’m cold. Ever so cold. I just want to curl into a ball and take a cat nap and when I wake up I want to sing like that canary I just ate. Metaphorically speaking…or singing.
The papers fell out of the sleeve. It was a nightmare. avalanche. the carpet got a new covering. she threw her hands up in the air. They rustled through the air like millions of wings. I stood, listening to the fluttering of the insects flying straight down my ear canal
My hands are constantly cold so I keep them in my sleeves. I feel safer and much warmer that way. It’s a small comfort. That must be one of the main reasons I adore sweaters.
Sleeves covered her scarred filled arms. People don’t realize how much she hurts on this inside, and they really don’t care. There is one person that she cares about, but he doesn’t even know she exists. Her arms bled, as she thought about just wanting to be happy, one last time.
It was one sided sleeve, he always wear it. She was interested about it. What was in that sleeve that nobody could ever see it? What was in that arm that was never showed?
She wanted to know, and she’ll discover it.
I had a sleeve on my arm on time. It was plaid. He was wearing it. He was adorable wearing all of his plaid. He was cute. Everything about that sleeve he was wearing was perfect. He is perfect. EVERYTHING. perfect. I would never give up the word perfect to anyone else. He is my everything. My soul, I could never like anyone more then I like him. It’s unbelievable how beautiful he is. He wears the sleeve everyday. His sleeve says I love you Jesus. He is a Jesus freak. I love him. I think, I really don’t know. I don’t love him. I really really like him.
I can’t believe this word caused me to write so much. Well this word and you. You are my inspiration. I haven’t written in so long and here you are on my mind, causing a blast of ideas
my skirt is purple and my sleeves are brown . sometimes I wish I could sever my left pinky toe and attach it to my other soul. that would be quite satisfying. even If you say that the pigs are so I do not believe you ever. never and then we all crumble and die and laugh. in unison. ahahahahahaa
ueyhehhf eiuwfh eiuwhq2937 17249yr aqwdih wioueqowe oiwqueoi oueu uu u uu u u uu u u u uu uu u u u u uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu sleeve ssssssuqweusssssssssssssssssssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee problem?dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd dddddddd dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
My heart, I wear on my sleeve,
which fails to support my pumping blood
that drips from my arm to the floor
and makes you run away.
My heart, I wear on my sleeve,
but no one tends to love me,
for the gruesome blood flows quickly.
I bonked my head with a sleeve. I hit myself with a sleeve. And it hurt real bad. A train just crashed into my sleeve! It pulled my sleeve off of me and took my shirt with it!! And it hurt like the dickens real bad.
I just couldn’t seem to get my sleeves to stay up.
When I woke up, I thought it would be cold, I mean, its the middle of December; but it was up to 70 now.
I hated it. I felt horrible. There I was, standing there with the girl I adored, and my sleeves wouldn’t stay up.
I’m not really sure why that bothered me; but then again, everything that wasn’t perfect about me bothered me with her.
She made me nervous.
Snow was piling up outside. There we stood, by the window, watching the children play with the sleds. Suddenly, I felt a chill and pulled down my sleeves.
Sleeves are cool without them everyone would wear tank tops or some shit. I hate tank tops. I mean they’re okay but they’re fucking terrible in the winter.
a covering, a protector. its goes on the books i buy and i always loose it and it kind of stinks. a sleeve covers my arms and protects them from stuff, i guess, this is random zsgagayysrthwrtegrsd
you can wear your heart on it, pull them up when ready to work. rip them off in anger during an action scene in a war movie. you can crinkle or roll them up to fit the current style. it is not part of you, it is part of a item that will fade within months, years, if you’re lucky, and you’ll throw it out, and find a new one to put on. it changes every day, sometimes several times. am i talking about sleeves or your personality?
The sleeve on top of his arm was a bandage for all the pain and anguish he had to suffer through. The ray of light that shone behind him was all that had left him with jitters and twitters. The sleeve was a mask, a bandanna and a culprit of societal ostracization.
Yet we cannot be victims forever. Let us take up our strengths, our arms, our convictions and turn a new leaf, a new day.
sometimes i wonder why we even have sleeves. They are so pointless. Why do we need them if we could just wear singlets? Why did anyone invent sleeves in the first place? Well I might even have an answer for that! Its so that we can have tshirts and everyone loves tshirts!
I tugged at his sleeve gently, he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t, it was ages ago that he fell asleep, it was ages ago I watched him drift away. Knowing he wasn’t mine.
shirt sleeping bag something to keep you warm, i love them in the winter and in the fall, except when i get sweaty, OH GOSH!! well i love them they are thebest invention.
Stop talking. Stop thinking about the heart that’s exposed on the tip of your sleeve; as it bleed down onto the floor making an ocean too vast to swim through. Stop thinking. Thinking about what could have happened, who you could have been; who she could have been. Start breathing, start living a life that is not dictated by anyone but yourself.
So, I have to make the best of this? I’ve already spent my last paycheck, and the next one, and by the time I get the one after that it will be gone too. I need to get on with it. I can’t just sit here in the corner snivelling. I’ve added a teaspoon of cement to my cup of tea, hitched up my big girl panties and wiped my nose on my sleeve. Now it’s almost time for drinks.
His navy blue and red striped sweater sleeve tickled my forehead as he played with my hair. Laying on his ribs, I could feel his chest rise with each breath, his lungs expanding and contracting. His heart beat was slow and slightly unsteady, along with his stomach; I could hear its low rumbles. I was perfectly content with my right hand intertwined in his left, our fingers running over each others in random patterns, like some kind of game. We have a strange love, yet completely conventional. I don’t mind one bit.
she put her arm up and tugged with a finger. there, she said, it’s better now.
sometimes you have to push something up to make it look better. like bangs or boobs.
you never know who you’ll meet. a family friend said she never dressed so well as after a break up.
you had me thinking i could believe
then youve got me thinking you’re going to leave
that was a long time ago, im changing you’ll see
im keeping myself under wraps
won’t wear my heart on my sleeve.
Yesterday my boyfriend sent me a text saying, “I love when my sleeve smells like you.”Later that evening, I leaned down to pick something up and could smell him on my shoulder. I love his smell. We have a strange love, as you can see.
The sleeve was brown and gray, like the sky in the final moments of night when the stars were ebbing away with the moon and the sun wasn’t quite out yet, but expecting. The flowers were pink like the rosy cheeks of the children that we saw as we rode our bikes past the school and laughed.
This sleeve is covered in my pumping blood, for I will always wear my heart here. Forever more you will see me. I am tired of hiding. Tired of not being that reminder of why you live. So live for me and I continue to bleed, my sleeve pumps this blood.
he caught her sleeve, head bowed low and lips raw from hours of fierce biting. “…don’t go,” he whispered softly, so quiet and so inside that the wind almost carried his voice away like so many dandelions before him. she stopped, hair streaming out behind her and tears streaming down her face and she, in turn, clutched his sleeve and pulled him close. “i’m sorry,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before turning around again and tugging her shirtsleeve away. “i’m so, so sorry.”
My sleeve is dirty,second hand jacket,Ace,Vanish to get it off,a good wash,not that bad,needs to be better so I am smarter,but I exagerate.
She had a full sleeve of tattoos on her left arm, big glasses, long jungle hair. She held the metal carafe under the steamer and watched as the milk fluffed up, carefully, to silky perfection and poured it shaking her wrist leaving a perfect heart in his morning coffee. He looked at her, and thought he saw a slight blush on her cheeks. But she had moved on to the next customer. As he walked away, she glanced at his back, distracted and wishing.
The blinds were drawn shut, but through the small cracks, shafts of light shone through, reflecting the dancing particles of dust. He still had to tilt his head back to see the high ceilings and floor was covered in a thin layer of sawdust that left footprints as as he walked across it. It was just as he had left it: empty. Except at the very centre, in which a tall rectangular object stood, covered by a sheet. Tugging at its cotton sleeve, the sheet fell in billows on to the ground, spreading the sawdust up in the air and skittering across the marble. The great grandfather clock towered nearly five feet above his head, and its dark wood and solid frame demanded a certain authority.
“Hello old friend,” he sighed as he removed his jacket and swung open the key lock door, “we meet again.” He swung the pendulum to the left, and stepped inside.
i pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt over my hands to feel invisible and all you could think of to say was i love you. for the first time since the day when i disappeared in a snowstorm, i wanted nothing more than to be lost, lost in you.
My sleeve caught my tears as they tumbled down my cheeks. “No, I just have the hiccups.” Worst excuse ever, I thought to myself. I wanted to look at him, to see his expression, to know whether he believed me or not. But it was dark out, and I was the one under the street lamp. I wouldn’t be able to see him anyhow. It wasn’t worth him seeing me like this.
ok.
my heart is on my sleeve.
waiting for you to say a word
i hope to one day make you believe
that yes, in fact everything is not blurred .
I like sleeves. Mostly ones that are long, and go past my wrists and on to my fingertips. I am always pulling at my sleeves to make sure they stay long, as if they’re going somewhere. I like short sleeves too, though. And even no sleeves. But long, snug ones to my wrist are the best.
I yawned into my sleeve and pulled my turtleneck above my nose. I’m cold. Ever so cold. I just want to curl into a ball and take a cat nap and when I wake up I want to sing like that canary I just ate. Metaphorically speaking…or singing.
The papers fell out of the sleeve. It was a nightmare. avalanche. the carpet got a new covering. she threw her hands up in the air. They rustled through the air like millions of wings. I stood, listening to the fluttering of the insects flying straight down my ear canal
My hands are constantly cold so I keep them in my sleeves. I feel safer and much warmer that way. It’s a small comfort. That must be one of the main reasons I adore sweaters.
Sleeves covered her scarred filled arms. People don’t realize how much she hurts on this inside, and they really don’t care. There is one person that she cares about, but he doesn’t even know she exists. Her arms bled, as she thought about just wanting to be happy, one last time.
It was one sided sleeve, he always wear it. She was interested about it. What was in that sleeve that nobody could ever see it? What was in that arm that was never showed?
She wanted to know, and she’ll discover it.
I had a sleeve on my arm on time. It was plaid. He was wearing it. He was adorable wearing all of his plaid. He was cute. Everything about that sleeve he was wearing was perfect. He is perfect. EVERYTHING. perfect. I would never give up the word perfect to anyone else. He is my everything. My soul, I could never like anyone more then I like him. It’s unbelievable how beautiful he is. He wears the sleeve everyday. His sleeve says I love you Jesus. He is a Jesus freak. I love him. I think, I really don’t know. I don’t love him. I really really like him.
I can’t believe this word caused me to write so much. Well this word and you. You are my inspiration. I haven’t written in so long and here you are on my mind, causing a blast of ideas
my skirt is purple and my sleeves are brown . sometimes I wish I could sever my left pinky toe and attach it to my other soul. that would be quite satisfying. even If you say that the pigs are so I do not believe you ever. never and then we all crumble and die and laugh. in unison. ahahahahahaa
ueyhehhf eiuwfh eiuwhq2937 17249yr aqwdih wioueqowe oiwqueoi oueu uu u uu u u uu u u u uu uu u u u u uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuu sleeve ssssssuqweusssssssssssssssssssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee problem?dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd dddddddd dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
My heart, I wear on my sleeve,
which fails to support my pumping blood
that drips from my arm to the floor
and makes you run away.
My heart, I wear on my sleeve,
but no one tends to love me,
for the gruesome blood flows quickly.
Ike found two, one hundred dollar bills in the sleeve of his own album cover. They were autographed by Elvis Prestly.
I bonked my head with a sleeve. I hit myself with a sleeve. And it hurt real bad. A train just crashed into my sleeve! It pulled my sleeve off of me and took my shirt with it!! And it hurt like the dickens real bad.
I just couldn’t seem to get my sleeves to stay up.
When I woke up, I thought it would be cold, I mean, its the middle of December; but it was up to 70 now.
I hated it. I felt horrible. There I was, standing there with the girl I adored, and my sleeves wouldn’t stay up.
I’m not really sure why that bothered me; but then again, everything that wasn’t perfect about me bothered me with her.
She made me nervous.
Snow was piling up outside. There we stood, by the window, watching the children play with the sleds. Suddenly, I felt a chill and pulled down my sleeves.
Sleeves are cool without them everyone would wear tank tops or some shit. I hate tank tops. I mean they’re okay but they’re fucking terrible in the winter.
a covering, a protector. its goes on the books i buy and i always loose it and it kind of stinks. a sleeve covers my arms and protects them from stuff, i guess, this is random zsgagayysrthwrtegrsd
you can wear your heart on it, pull them up when ready to work. rip them off in anger during an action scene in a war movie. you can crinkle or roll them up to fit the current style. it is not part of you, it is part of a item that will fade within months, years, if you’re lucky, and you’ll throw it out, and find a new one to put on. it changes every day, sometimes several times. am i talking about sleeves or your personality?
The sleeve on top of his arm was a bandage for all the pain and anguish he had to suffer through. The ray of light that shone behind him was all that had left him with jitters and twitters. The sleeve was a mask, a bandanna and a culprit of societal ostracization.
Yet we cannot be victims forever. Let us take up our strengths, our arms, our convictions and turn a new leaf, a new day.
Let us be and let us LIVE!
sometimes i wonder why we even have sleeves. They are so pointless. Why do we need them if we could just wear singlets? Why did anyone invent sleeves in the first place? Well I might even have an answer for that! Its so that we can have tshirts and everyone loves tshirts!
I tugged at his sleeve gently, he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t, it was ages ago that he fell asleep, it was ages ago I watched him drift away. Knowing he wasn’t mine.
shirt sleeping bag something to keep you warm, i love them in the winter and in the fall, except when i get sweaty, OH GOSH!! well i love them they are thebest invention.
Stop talking. Stop thinking about the heart that’s exposed on the tip of your sleeve; as it bleed down onto the floor making an ocean too vast to swim through. Stop thinking. Thinking about what could have happened, who you could have been; who she could have been. Start breathing, start living a life that is not dictated by anyone but yourself.
So, I have to make the best of this? I’ve already spent my last paycheck, and the next one, and by the time I get the one after that it will be gone too. I need to get on with it. I can’t just sit here in the corner snivelling. I’ve added a teaspoon of cement to my cup of tea, hitched up my big girl panties and wiped my nose on my sleeve. Now it’s almost time for drinks.
His navy blue and red striped sweater sleeve tickled my forehead as he played with my hair. Laying on his ribs, I could feel his chest rise with each breath, his lungs expanding and contracting. His heart beat was slow and slightly unsteady, along with his stomach; I could hear its low rumbles. I was perfectly content with my right hand intertwined in his left, our fingers running over each others in random patterns, like some kind of game. We have a strange love, yet completely conventional. I don’t mind one bit.
she put her arm up and tugged with a finger. there, she said, it’s better now.
sometimes you have to push something up to make it look better. like bangs or boobs.
you never know who you’ll meet. a family friend said she never dressed so well as after a break up.
you had me thinking i could believe
then youve got me thinking you’re going to leave
that was a long time ago, im changing you’ll see
im keeping myself under wraps
won’t wear my heart on my sleeve.
Yesterday my boyfriend sent me a text saying, “I love when my sleeve smells like you.”Later that evening, I leaned down to pick something up and could smell him on my shoulder. I love his smell. We have a strange love, as you can see.
The sleeve was brown and gray, like the sky in the final moments of night when the stars were ebbing away with the moon and the sun wasn’t quite out yet, but expecting. The flowers were pink like the rosy cheeks of the children that we saw as we rode our bikes past the school and laughed.
This sleeve is covered in my pumping blood, for I will always wear my heart here. Forever more you will see me. I am tired of hiding. Tired of not being that reminder of why you live. So live for me and I continue to bleed, my sleeve pumps this blood.
he caught her sleeve, head bowed low and lips raw from hours of fierce biting. “…don’t go,” he whispered softly, so quiet and so inside that the wind almost carried his voice away like so many dandelions before him. she stopped, hair streaming out behind her and tears streaming down her face and she, in turn, clutched his sleeve and pulled him close. “i’m sorry,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before turning around again and tugging her shirtsleeve away. “i’m so, so sorry.”
A part of a garment that covers all or part of an arm.. that’s all I know about it.
The sleeve was long and lacy. Like a tangled web was weaved. So beautiful. No dress should be without.