He surprised walked in to the bedroom while I was watching the Notebook. It was at the climax and, naturally, I was bawling. He didn’t laugh or tease or make a joke. He just grabbed me and let me stupid cry into his perfect chest, squeezing me and kissing the crown of my head.
Y’all, it’s so the little things.
Tuesday. Playful, her kisses toothy against your mouth. A smile when she whispers how she loves you as much as she loves peanut butter, lips against your earlobe. She paints eyelashes black, looks up at you through them, dusts powder across her freckles and stains her cheeks pink. She’s all teeth and hands when you say goodbye, a ribbon in her hair.
Wednesday. Her side of the bed is cold, early light filtered through the curtains to stain the sheets. When you find her, there are shaky kisses, fumbled hands against your skin. Her fingertips are warm and nervous and her lips are already coloured with coffee stains. She doesn’t say goodbye but the door slams on her departure and you finish the coffee in the pot, hide the cold side of the bed.
Thursday. She loves you fiercely, wildly. There are red lips, smudged at the corners and blurred across your cheek. Her teeth scrape your collarbone in that place somewhere between dreams and consciousness. She pulls the blanket with her when she rises it, drops it on the kitchen floor, kisses like maybe you are made of oxygen or peanut butter.
Friday. In the morning, before the sun has fully risen, she presses her lips to yours. Neither of you are asleep, but still not quite awake, but her hands reach for you across the distance. You think that it must be love, the way she sets your skin on fire in the late afternoon, burns you from the inside out in the evening. She is a black silk shirt, a gentle touch, wine-painted lips under dimmed lights.
Saturday. The brush of her skin against your sides, your face cupped in her hands. Cold palm to your cheek, she brings you to consciousness, fingertips made of fresh roses and sleep. She makes toast spread thick with apricot jam, leftovers from the weekend before. There are crumbs through the sheets and her smile is pink, gentle, smearing jam from the corner of your mouth.
Sunday. Warm, she lies beside you until the sun is high. The sheets lose their light, the heat along with it, her body soft against your side. There are whispers against skin, chapped lips and promises, coffee gone cold on the nightstand. Her heartbeat through a cotton nightshirt, beating confessions against her chest, against the palm of your hand pressed to her.
Glory // David Ramirez live at The Continental Club // September 26, 2014
• just because seeing him play this simple riff live inspired me more than anything I’ve experienced in a long time •
@davidramirez (at The Continental Club)
"When they don’t love you the way you want to, you mourn that for however long you need to. But then you get back up and you remind yourself. You are not a reflection of the people who can’t love you. You will love again. You will be loved again." - Caitlyn Siehl
Nothing really happened. Nothing changed to make me feel this way. Nothing caused it that I can put my finger on. I’m just having one of those nights when I’m suddenly and surprisingly gripped with anxiety and am questioning pretty much every decision I’ve made in the past few years. What if I did it wrong? Should I have stayed? What if I messed it all up?
Is this what growing up feels like?
I can’t help but love those cheesy love poems that I see all over here. Like the one I just reblogged? I feel that in my heart. I don’t care how dramatic. I love it and I want it. Along with what’s found in wedding pictures of couples holding hands and a piece of grungy art and a plane ticket and a solitary girl backpacking in the mountains and a neon sign and a singer giving her all on stage and a dolphin leaping out of the ocean and tattooed skin and a snapshot of a desk with a typewriter and coffee and a stack of books and a mom with her kids and a landscape that looks like nowhere I’ve ever lived. I have so many different parts of me and so many different things that I want and so many different people that I identify with and it makes me wonder who I really am.
Why can’t I be it all?
I just don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I am. I’m scared I don’t know who I am. Or maybe I know exactly and that’s what makes me feel this way. I’m unsettled.