“I would tell them he is the 12th time
I tried to quit smoking. I would tell them
he is the spark that burns the forest down.
I would tell them he is the forest. I would
tell them he is pulled teeth. I would tell them
he is a barking dog. I would tell them he is
never lonely, which is terrifying. I would tell
them he is late night talk of broken windows.
I would tell them silver is still silver, even
when it is blackened. I would tell them I
have done my research, and love is not a
state of being. It is a house that takes up the
whole world. I would tell them I am everywhere
except apart from him. I would tell them I
am a dog in the yard. I would tell them he
is the choke chain.”—-If Asked To Describe Him, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)
You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.
In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach.
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner and you say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.
In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights and olive oil,
not everything you have ever loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
laying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.
At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like wet paint?
You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like you are always
ticking inside of me and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.
Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.
Sierra DeMulder, Unrequited Love Poem (via exoticwild)
I think when it’s all over,
it just comes back and flashes,
It’s like a kaleidoscope of memories,
which it all comes back,
but he never does.
I think part of me knew the second I saw him
that this would happen.
It’s not really anything he said,
or anything he did.
the feeling that came along with it,
and the crazy thing is,
I don’t ever know if I’m gonna feel that way again.
But I don’t know if I should.
I knew this world moved too fast, and
burned too bright.
But I just thought,
how can the devil be pulling you towards someone
so much like an angel when he smiles at you?
Maybe he knew that
when he saw me.
I guess I just lost my balance.
I think that
the worst part of it all wasn’t losing him,
it was losing me.
“I have failed in relationships before. The person that I loved sort of loved some idea of me that was three shades off of who I was and made me feel really lonely… The idea of a perfect person - there is no perfect person for you. You know it’s all about how you come to (accept) them. I keep saying like you know the first honeymoon stage of love is all compulsion and after that it’s choice. And the choice to stay with someone; the choice to love who they really are and not some idea of them - those are important and hard choices to make.”—Zoe Kazan on writing Ruby Sparks (via ajabonitawrites)
you are a horse running alone and he tries to tame you compares you to an impossible highway to a burning house says you are blinding him that he could never leave you forget you want anything but you you dizzy him, you are unbearable every woman before or after you is doused in your name you fill…
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again. you used to write insane poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you knew…
“Maybe there’s a universe where I’m the right person for you. Where I adore every nice thing you did for me without starting to resent you. A universe where you actually end up with someone who appreciates you. Where no one becomes a doormat. Where both of us can shed our baggage and curiosity and issues. A universe where we’re happy — without wondering if that happiness is some messed-up Jenga game ready to topple at the slightest quiver. A universe where we’re comfortable and sure.”
“I want a life that sizzles and pops and makes me laugh out loud. And I don’t want to get to the end, or to tomorrow, even, and realize that my life is a collection of meetings and pop cans and errands and receipts and dirty dishes. I want to eat cold tangerines, and sing out loud in the car with the windows open, and wear pink shoes, and stay up all night laughing, and paint my walls the exact color of the sky right now. I want to sleep hard on clean white sheets, and throw parties, and eat ripe tomatoes, and read books so good they make me jump up and down.”—Shauna Niequist (via creatingaquietmind)
“In your life, you meet people. Some you never think about again. Some, you wonder what happened to them. There are some that you wonder if they ever think about you. And then there are some you wish you never had to think about again. But you do.”—C.S. Lewis (via sparksfly)