I wrote this months ago (II)

I wish I could stretch my arms and be able to touch your ears or your collarbones or your silly tattoos or your puppy eyes, just like I used to. I wish I could go back in time and that when you were leaning towards me I hadn't stopped you, but leaned towards you as well, and I wish I could have tasted your chapped lips and felt your smile against my smile.
I wish I could hold you one more time.

I wrote this months ago (I)

My eyelids are heavy,
and all I can think about right now
is about
you.
Your perfect hair,
your words that stab me like
a
million
knives.
And I'd rather stay awake
writing about you.
About your eyebrows and your small eyes.
Because I can control my words
but not my thoughts, nor my dreams.
You are
my
dream
(s).

I wrote this not Chuck Palahniuk?, a photo by prescience on Flickr.

It is up to you to find them.

Mornings filled with pancakes, kisses and silence. Those are some of the things I want but can't have.
Afternoons in which your fingers are entangled between mine, in which your lips leave a small but sweet trace through my spine.
Evenings with your eyes locked with mine, not watching the movies we're supposed to, with the voices as our soundtrack while my toes search for your ankle.

How I long for you. Come here.

03/??/2012

03/??/2012, a photo by prescience on Flickr.

I've got layers and layers of people, places, moments, stuck to me.

Things We Tell Ourselves in the Dark, Pt 4

Things We Tell Ourselves in the Dark, Pt 4, a photo by poorly written history on Flickr.

... and whispered apologies you couldn't hear but felt against your skin.

How to see in the dark.

How to see in the dark., a photo by prescience on Flickr.

I am sobbing,

Why are you hiding?

Why are you hiding?, a photo by prescience on Flickr.

I'm too tired every day of every week.


Come here.