Inadequacy.

(All I have are cliché words, so maybe those are all I'm good for. 
And nothing moves me anymore, so maybe this is all I am.)

Do you want me to tell you how his lips taste, how his breath feels mixing with mine? Less intoxicating than how I imagined yours to be; one million times better than what you left me with. That's how.

I underestimated loneliness: my fatal flaw, this driving force. So easily disguised as affection - willing me near another, even when the other isn't right, isn't perfect.

And I haven't yet made my mind up. I'm still fighting through these pros and cons; still waiting to follow my own advice; still clutching at the wounds you left.

What I do know is that every time I'm with him, it gets harder to remember what your voice sounds like, and that must count for something.

S.

{Photo: Flickr Animus}

Extraordinary Existence.

Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled---to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.

Mary Oliver

{Photo via: We Heart It}

Before - and the Aftermath.

I just realized it's going to kill me:
Everything that we are not, and will never be.

As much as I want to go back, I don't.

There are things that I wanted to leave and never have to see again.
There are feelings that I didn't want to resurrect from their long time grave.
There are situations that must be faced, that I can not even think on.

I know how this story is supposed to end.
And I'll let it - end, that is.
But let these words be mine
And let me say them how I choose:
With vehemence, or sorrow, or something deep and stronger still --
Something more than malice or heartache could hold.
-- The left over fire of a passionate soul:

I love you still. 

XXXX

I hope you're happy. 

You, with all the words off your chest. 

You, with a pair of ready arms to fall into. 

You, safe at a distance of a million miles away.

I hope you're glad I read what you wrote 

sitting in an overcrowded bus in a strange city; 

tired and alone. 

I hope it gives you joy to know that I was brought to tears 

amidst the strangers, the hard plastic chairs and the bright city lights. 

Surrounded so fully, and yet, more alone then I've ever been. 

Infuriated by your selfishness, your timing:

Everything you were and weren't and won't ever be to me.

I hope you find delight in the way you've played me so completely,

and the wicked way you reached to pull me back just as I let you go.

And I hope you are pleased to know that I don't care. 

I've ripped the blinders from my eyes and you don't own me anymore.

I do not love you still. 

S. 

{Photos via: Tumblr; We Heart It}

Happy Valentine's Day

Six hundred and forty fish later, the only thing I know is everything you love will die. The first time you meet someone special, you can count on them one day being dead and in the ground.

Chuck Palahniuk

{Photo: Flickr 「夜。」}  

Silhouettes.

I've been living with the ghosts of all the things I've refused to say, shadows of lost possibility.

My remaining soul tries to fight against them - explaining that it is the curse of my humanity - pointing to another that has haunted me longer still: Fear. He, fixed fast upon my heart, won't let the words out.

I don't suppose these visitors care much. They're here to stay. Besides, what would be the use of winning this battle of reason? I've lost the war, my favor will never be regained, and that is why they haunt me.

But, truth be told, I'm not so sure I would want to be a part of something so terribly fragile; something so easily destroyed by swallowed words. Let these monsters taunt me; let them strip my heart of all it's substance, and let me claim the life of the tin man.

S. 

{Photo via: We Heart It}

Walk It Off.

I'm sorry for all the words unsaid. You mean more to me than the clumsiness of syllables and the harshness of my voice. You mean more to me than the truth.

The truth of us, the truth of her, the truth of how I feel regardless of the way things have been left.

I never wanted you to go, but I had to be the last to let you know.* 

S.

*Angus and Julia Stone

{Photo via: We Heart It}

Hidden Meaning.

All things are written in code, crafted by the masters of language. Everything that isn't - the few words of honest nature - get buried inside it all; making it more difficult to decipher anything real. It soon becomes a muddled stream of partially coherent verbs and nouns and adjectives. 

But what did you expect? 

That it would be simple?

Well it is. When you cut out the excess, bit by bit, you see what the puzzles always form to say. :

Everything. Means. Nothing.

I'm sorry this is not what you wanted.
But what did you expect?

S. 

{Photo: Flickr Frederica Erra}

The Words On My Lips.

Written By: I Wrote This For You

And when we speak now, seldom as that is, the old language returns. I wonder if it makes old names make guest appearances in your mind. If you can feel the skin of my neck near yours one more time. Do you reach across the bed for a shape, no longer there. Do you remember it clearly or is it all just memories of memories. Is there still warmth from my fingers tracing the contours of your skin, left somewhere in your body. If you smell the smell of how I used to smell in a crowd, do you think of these things. Is something missing in everyone else's or someone new's voice. Will they never know quite how to laugh or breathe just behind your ear. Do they know what you look like when you want to leave a party, when you've had too much of people. Could they rebuild your body out of clay if they needed to, because they've touched it so many times. Does your back still arch the way it used to when I still kissed you. 

Does an old singer sing an old song on an old radio. 

Do the lyrics still shake your fucking soul. 

Did it sound like this?

You were everything I needed, and now all I need is for you to remember.

S. 

{Photo via: We Heart It}