Tonight.

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.

I just want some flowers.
Monday. She loves you softly, pale lips and pale hands, her eyelashes on your cheek before dawn. There’s tea in bed, too much milk and the perfect amount of sugar. Your hands can’t stop touching her when you say goodbye. The curve of her waist and the soft of her stomach against your body, a palm against your cheek and a fingertip to your lips.

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.

Sophie Clews, “The Daily Lover”  (via petrichour)

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)

(Source: dearfawndoe)

A mistake repeated more than once is a decision.
Paulo Coelho  (via thelittlefrenchbullblog)

sudeikat:

"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. 

I want you. I want to throw you against a wall, wrap your legs around my waist and kiss you. Kiss you until we have to stop to catch our breaths. I want you and only you. I want to take you on road trips that lead us to pulling over on the side of the road because we can’t keep our hands off each other. I want you and your flaws. I want your messy makeup from teary eyes as I hold you and talk to you about life. I want the 3am phone calls because you can’t sleep at night. I want to be yours and only yours. I want to taste all your cooking, even if it’s not good, even if it’s experimenting I’d have you cook every meal for the rest of my life. I want you. I want my trembling hands to grab your waist and dance with you in the middle of an empty room. I want to struggle on days when I can’t see you. I want to fight about meaningless stuff that will lead to meaningful sex. I want you. I want your hand to rest on my forearm as we enter a party, so I can reassure you that you are safe with me. I want to sing to you in the shower and have you shut me up with kisses because we both know I’m no singer. I want the ups and downs, the winter and summer days. I want you and only you…
what I’m too afraid to say (via soulsscrawl)

(Source: h0pefulkid-withaninkedupheart)