For Weston
The best mornings are those that allow the sun rays to come through your window pane and down on your freckled back, my bare leg thrown over your leg. The mornings that remind me why I’m alive, the mornings when your fingertips trace the outlines of my shoulder blades while my hands satisfy their thirst to explore you.
Those mornings that are whole days, that consume each and every neuron of my sick brain. Those mornings that I’ll dream about in the future. But that I won’t miss because I hope with all the strength that I can scrape that, in the future, I’ll wake up to trace your lips with mine. That my stomach pressed to your ribcage will be discovered each waking morning by the very first sun rays of the day. That the earliest memory I have from gaining consciousness in the morning is my fingers resting on your collarbones.
There’s many other moments I hope to share with you the rest of my life, but if I only had those mornings, our mornings, it would suffice for me to be content with what I have and have had.
10:47 pm • 28 May 2012 • 4 notes
I was supposed to remember this summer in many different ways than I do now.
What I miss the most is spending early winter mornings with your mother and the black tea she prepared. I remember well the story she told me once about the guy before your dad.
It makes me sick to my stomach that you might be the equivalent.
(Source: tarantisms)
12:00 am • 21 May 2012 • 15 notes
You took this picture of me the day my apartment was robbed.
A few months later I sprayed that cloth heart with the perfume I used to wear when we fell in love, that remote winter of 2010.
And a few months after that, on the hazy spring of 2012, you gave it back to me along with some pins we exchanged on a cheesy Valentine’s day of our Junior year in high school.
(Source: tarantisms)
11:55 pm • 20 May 2012 • 2 notes
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
tarantisms:
I named this “Red Streets” just for the sake of naming it. In my opinion, it’s just another untitled rambling.
I held my knees with shattering teeth, and all I got from you was clenched fists and quiet stares.
The sides of my neck were cramping and you wouldn’t stop looking murderously at me.
You asked me what the fuck I was crying for.
It was the cold and then it was you and then it was the fact that my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding.
I emptied my veins into the cracks on the street.
It’s been two months and I sit on my bed, still holding my knees. But my teeth don’t shatter and my neck doesn’t hurt and my blood is not running on my sheets. And no one is sneering at me and I am not threatened with bruised knuckles.
Yet I still sit on the bottom of the bathtub holding my knees and it’s been five months. And my nose may not bleed and my body may not freeze but my brain falls apart like dry sand against the wind. Your name may haunt me and your favorite band drive me insane, but be god damn sure that the only reason you cross my mind is so I don’t paint the streets red ever again.
11:43 pm • 20 May 2012 • 12 notes
On -technically- two people
his uncomfortable desire for some sort of closure is nothing but understandable.
Words never meant are uttered when anger fills your head, too bad we never realized that we promised things only when in bliss.
And I’m not falling in love. I have risen in love.
What do you remember the most?
Do you remember how my skin felt or what my face looks like or how your leg trembles or the way I whisper when I’m tired?
Because I have started to forget what I thought I’d always love.
Soon enough, you’ll be nothing but a wooden box of cuban cigars. Filled of dried rose petals, photos of raw, sheer, young love. The letters that you wrote for me and little trinkets of our adventures. All under my bed, dusty, and decaying. Resembling the last sun our love saw.
I might miss you some day.
I’ll always remember you entirely.
(And it’s because it is entirely that I won’t love you again the same way I did when I was just sixteen.)
11:41 pm • 20 May 2012
I hope the skin on the back of your neck itches with remorse with the memory of my fingers through your hair while you drove. I hope you’ll feel the need to rip the scabs off your damaged knuckles with the realization of your unfair anger and revenges. I hope the need for a cigarette eats your insides up while the idea of “us” dissolving from smoke licks the back of your eyelids.
I really do hope you never feel like me.
I hope you never go comatose with anguish while you feel the bleakness of your heart expand it’s cold fingers to the middle of your brain. I hope your desultory speech is not a reflection of a dangerous penitence your neuron’s lunacy found suiting for your guilty fists. I hope the anticipation of my sight doesn’t give you the slightest ray of light, as the certainty of yet another disappointment is alive and well in the space between your lungs. I hope you manage to always fight back the tears scratching your eyeballs with the remembrance of your leg over my leg, my hair over your chest, my smell in your red sheets. I hope the dreaded desire for my presence doesn’t come back crawling to your fingertips taunting you to let out a tear, a scream, a punch, anything that will fill the hollow spaces behind your eyes. I really hope your ribcage is not a cemetery of rotten feelings with my burnt letters chained to their ankles. I hope reality doesn’t seem distant with the absence of my hair, splinters of our afternoons, dancing in between your pillows, your sheets, your carpet, your couch, your shower, your sink, yourself. I hope my name doesn’t haunt the living shit out of you when you hear it pronounced my way.
11:40 pm • 20 May 2012
Journal entries from February, 201
Today I drank orange juice while I sat on the porch. I love morning cigarettes. I feel completely drained and then “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure comes up. At first I want to laugh and jump around -and I do- but then I completely bawl my eyes out and just stare into the vastness that is my neighbor’s living room. I write into my red journal what I think of as my “best works.” My neighbor really loves her. The other night I cried because she simply doesn’t love him the same way yet she stays. He tells her to leave and, god, he tries to be strong sometimes. But he’s just head over heels for her. It seems as though they really loved each other at some point. Or maybe they just thought they did and now the poor guy is just dwelling on the fact that those feelings were real then -and only then.
I wish I knew to not be sad. I was giving poetry a try out on the balcony. It wasn’t all too bad in my opinion.It was cold. Absolutely cold -both the wind and my poetry. So I lit up a cigarette. I love morning cigarettes. Yet, your lips are still my favorite thing to put in between mine. Your hair is still my favorite smell and your eyes are my favorite fucking sight. And all I have is smoke. Smoke to come out of my lips and smoke to smell and smoke to lose my little brain in for a few seconds.
——————————
I dreamt I was a sunset, but woke up to incense smoke. When I couldn’t close my eyes to orange I got up for greek yogurt with some honey and a song by The Cure. No pants on, strawberries next to my red covers and I put a hat on. The security on my head felt warm. Like when our hands were held through hallways of mean stares. My friend said that depression is good for writers. I think I’d rather be a talentless pen pal that a suicidal novelist.
11:40 pm • 20 May 2012
I was sixteen
He was seventeen when I met him. Inviting, secure, he was stubborn as a bull and wore mostly black. There’s never been a day I’ve seen him wear anything else but black Converse chucks. He had the most expressive eyes I had ever lost myself in. They were a very deep blue, a blue that changed to grey depending on the light. His skin was very rough, especially on his knuckles. This and the way he dressed made him look more like a 90’s protest activist than a Texas high school student.
11:39 pm • 20 May 2012
A Buildup
It was early February, I believe. I remember the sound of the wind blowing while I got ready for our date. It must have been cold. The thing is; I can’t remember being cold. I remember feeling stupidly happy –almost anxious– that you still wanted to hold my hand. You had this surprise date all planned out. Japanese tea garden, actual tea at madhatters and something else that we didn’t do because we decided we were enough for each other. I remember taking a picture at the garden, I remember what I was wearing. The steps of the place, how you looked at me, the way you held my hand while driving.
I knew I loved you since December 23rd. I knew, sitting in that little table in the corner, that I wanted to drown in you. Now that I think about it it’s quite funny that I had that realization at madhatters. You showed me many things, you kept me warm that January. I remember what I was wearing when I met your parents. Those first weeks when we would stay in your room all night, talking, music playing, I miss you.
Remember that first time you met my parents?
I have such good memories. I usually laugh, but then I break out in tears, I miss you.
We have no future together.
11:38 pm • 20 May 2012
