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I would have stayed if it meant
talking to you on those wooden stairs all night
I’d have slapped mosquitos away
and listened to you compare yourself to your father
until the sky grew pink

If only you knew how much I meant it
when I assured you of your talent
your wit
your possibility
I should have pretended I’d drank more
and kissed you on that couch
made a fool of myself again
just so you could taste how much I think of you

You can do great things
Things that will cause your father to
scratch his beard and ask for more details
Things greater than the small town you grew up in
I just wish you’d do them with me

—— Greater than the town you grew up in, by Lora Mathis

A girl and her bed on Sundays are an endless love affair.
note to self  (via coldflowers)

Home is where your heart is forever yearning

Hope bears the scars you’re forever learning

And I keep telling everyone
that I was not trying to kill
I did not want to bleed out.
I did not want to die.
And when I was dragging
those blades across my
wrists it was not because
I wanted my life to drain
out of my skin.
It was not because I
thought that if I got all of
the blood out of my body,
all of the sadness would
wash out too.
It was just because I was
convinced I had flowers
growing in my veins.
Maybe there was something
beautiful or good left inside
I was trying to find it.
But I didn’t find flowers or
stars or anything worth
tearing myself open for
I just got dizzy and shook
a lot. It was stupid of me
to believe that there was
anything inside me
besides broken glass and
shattered bones covered
in blood.
(via extrasad)
Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.
The Little Prince  (via bl-ossomed)
Cento volte al giorno mi trattengo, pronto come sono a dire il tuo nome; su ogni nonnulla mi vengono sempre paragoni, rapporti, antitesi di cui sei tu il centro. Tutte le stelline del mio cuore convergono intorno al tuo pianeta, mio bell’astro.
Lavoro più che posso. Questo pomeriggio sono rimasto sette ore senza muovermi dalla mia poltrona, e stasera tre. Tutto ciò non vale due ore di lavoro ragionevole. La tua immagine mi viene sempre come una nebbiolina (sai, uno di quei vapori mattutini che danzano e salgono luminosi, aerei, rosati) fra i miei occhi e le righe che essi percorrono. Rileggo l’Eneide, di cui mi ripeto a sazietà qualche verso; mi bastano per molto tempo. Me ne stanco la mente da solo; ci sono frasi che mi restano nella testa e da cui sono ossessionato, come da quelle arie che ritornano sempre e che vi fanno male tanto vi piacciono.
Gustave Flaubert, Lettere d’amore a Louise Colet (via consquisiteparole)
J’parle d’amour avec tout le monde. Je donne des conseils aux couples quand ça va pas, aux célibataires pour qu’ils trouvent une âme soeur. J’écoute des chansons d’amour niaises a deux balles. Je lis des romans a l’eau de rose parce que c’est jolie c’est beau pourtant qu’est ce que c’est cucu et niais. Pourtant je crois pas en ce putain de sentiments. J’ai jamais aimer personne amoureusement parlant alors que je parle d’amour comme si j’avais 80 ans. C’est moche c’est tellement moche. Je degueule sur la facilité des sentiments.
n. a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand. (via nyctaeus)
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
Jack Kerouac (via moth-girl)
This is my skin. It keeps out the rain and words I’d rather not hear like “I’m tired” or “I’m fine” or “We need to talk.”

This is my skin and it’s thick. This is not your skin. Yet you are still under it.
Iain S. Thomas, I Wrote This For You (via larmoyante)
It’s horrible when your heart is somewhere your body is not.
(via kvtes)

A bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where you’re still dreaming but it’s slowly slipping? I wish we could feel like that more often. I also wish I could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere I like. I wish that people didn’t always say ‘just wondering’ when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. And I wish I could get lost in the stars.

Listen, there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go.

E.E. Cummings (via chazkeats)