in nineteen days it will be a year since the day i clumsily tapped on your shoulder and asked ‘will you be my boyfriend?” in the manner of a five year old. a year since you mumbled something that sounded enough like yes that i smiled all the way to my ears before vowing not to let you get too close. it’s been less time than that since she died, and you held me in the crowd of mourners and whispered into my ear ‘i can’t help but feel selfishly grateful that this isn’t you.” it’s been over six months since you whispered ‘i love you’ as the moon shone down on your hair and reflected into my eyes. it’s been three years now since the day i met you, and-and-and— i don’t know. i’m trying to figure out which day you became a part of me, but i suppose we change all the people we meet, for better or for worse, so maybe we became intertwined three years ago and started on this crash collision course then. maybe the moon and the sun and the asteroids knew all along and decided to light the way and highlight the times that will forever be the most important moments of this-whatever this is.
there are photographs from which your eyes stare back into mine because my mother placed them on the walls of my room while i was gone. i thought you would like to have them there, she says, and all i can do is stare back into your eyes. what she doesn’t know is that i brought you back the moon even though all you ever wanted was for me never to leave, and you brought me flowers even though all i ever wanted was to live a life where i would never stay in one place long enough to see them wilt. she mistakes the space that our intertwined fingers fill for a foundation, but she doesn’t know that the earthquake has already come and that those are the only thing left standing; the foundations, with nothing to support.
(Source: proustitute, via unfinishedsentence)
you said you could write poetry about the way the sun hit my face at a certain time of day, and then you commented on how pronounced my cheekbones have become, sharpened like knives by the food i don’t eat so that your love supplies the energy i need instead of those petty little calories. people have been commenting on how the skin of my arms is stretching over my elbows, but none of those people went to see her when she was lowered into her final resting place, and none of them know that the coffin almost crashed and broke when it hit the side of the rectangular hole it was falling down. none of them know about the boy who looked me in the eye, and said he’d like to drown too, if he couldn’t drown in my bloodstream. my heart has been beating out of my chest when i am most calm, and tell me, what is the point of trying to keep the blood in when all it wants is out?
the places where you have left scars:
-my chin
-the space where my clavicle meets my neck
my heart, my beating, fleeting, fleeing heart.
there’s half-price love for sale on the market place; the stocks are alright.
hope you don’t mind, baby, but we have a mortgage on our shaky love. ain’t that ace?
baby please, i’ll do this, i’ll do it for you.
don’t put on that face. i still love you.
why don’t we buy some of that overpriced love they’re [still] selling on the marketplace?
but won’t our hearts go bankrupt on our promises if we keep borrowing at this rate?
don’t you worry, honey. you just gotta trust me.
