aliceinwanderlust
You listen to that damn record all the time. Sometimes when I watch you, you're not here, you're floating around on somewhere out of this world where I can never go with you, and I realize that this is maybe where we should drop everything and leave things at a good note. Then I shake that thought, trying to go back to whatever I was doing before. But you can never un-know something you've figured out. Since you got that record, maybe I was slowly preparing to leave as well. Or maybe I just realized that we were never in the same place, we were just running in circles thinking that whenever we spotted each other, that would be enough.
There's always going to be one name that you think of when you ponder about what your life has been living without. Your life knew that it was time for her to go, the relationship served its time, but you're always going to think of it. When you turn around from that garden party and look out in the darkness, or when you search across the room to share a laugh with meaningful eyes, you're going to wish if she was here.
"You can come anytime you need, but you can never leave"
Don't have any spare hearts left for you. So I'll leave my last one here on the porch.
The word jabbed me right in the gutter and for a moment I was frozen. I couldn't move or make any face, I was just still, while inside my mind all my body was fighting with its whole strength to stay sane, with all the blood inside me boiling in uproar.
We'll probably never be on the same page, he had said. And that's when he gave me the pouch that he had been keeping inside the very deepest part of his drawer. That thing had remained completely hidden inside for the whole duration of our knowing each other, and suddenly, when it emerged, it looked like a death sentence. I didn't even want to look at it.
"As he begins to raise his voice, you lower yours, grant him one last choice.
Drive until you lose the road, or break with the ones you've followed..."
-The Fray, How to Save a Life
The smoke of the yesterday's feud fogs my head, and the tension between us still clouds the air. Crammed full of words that are not meant to be said, I press on my temples and sink into the chair, trying not to burst out in broken sentences before he starts talking first. Instead, he doesn't, and we end up feeling like we're going to be crushed by the thick weight of silence.
They're always truer than humans, did you know that?
The bare bones of the loft attract me instantly. It doesn't feel too done; it feels like I have to be there and complete the last piece, that I have to get my hands dirty and put in the work and add some of myself into it to make it final.
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writing since 1969 · 44 entries · 43 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Jean showed up.
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the words Jean reaches for
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