Roses y Handcuffs

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It’s always words that undress you.

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I’ve often lost myself, in order to find the burn that keeps everything awake.

Federico García Lorca (via misswallflower)

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The Other Day

I never saw the day I’d see you and not want more of you. I’ve pined and cried for one more word, one more sigh for years. And one day, the other day, I got a dinner and a movie with you. After, I didn’t want more of you.

It happened. Finally.

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One Way to Say ‘I Love You’

I told him I loved him in his third day of struggling with strep throat. I crawled into bed and laid on my side, facing him. On the right side of his bed, my side. He smelled like NyQuil but I didn’t care. Sickness was the last thing, if even on my mind.

“Babe,” I whispered.

I placed my palm on his shoulder then moved upwards to cradle his cheek. Never lifting my touch.

He grunted.

“I love you,” I said.

“Babe,” he responded in the softest degree of frustration. He had wished I would have said it when he was, well not in bed with strep throat. So it would be romantic.

“I know, I know but…” I tried to explain.

“No, no it’s not that. It’s… Oh babe…” He smiled, with his eyes half open.

“I love you too.”

Never was I scared he wouldn’t say it back. To be honest, I didn’t care if he said it back. All I felt was the rush to say it. I couldn’t keep it in any longer.

How can you keep love in?

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And I’m still in love cause when it’s that real is when it doesn’t fade

Aubrey “Drake” Graham

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(me (roses y handcuffs): um, that’s not the “complicated” part. It’s what happens you do what’s suggested above. no?)

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I’m not sentimental — I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via misswallflower)

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Girl, Interrupted

Took a stroll through a few of our automatically saved e-conversations and found a reminder of the broken link in our friendship and where it lies:

“Happy belated…,” “Sorry, I was…,” “I can’t talk right now but…,” “I’m here but I’m…,” and of course “… is busy. You may be interrupting.”

And then I had an ‘a’ha!’ moment. Shit is my fault. I’m to blame for the effect of your wavering presence. I possess a burdening characteristic — since my emoness turned green — of wanting an Oprah session when the pang strikes sharpest or joy hits an indecipherable pitch. I also choose how much and how long it stirs up my emotions.

My expectation of the speed and timing of your reach out, in comparison to my own stats when in your position, sets me up for disappointment.

Incoming message — a cheesy but goody cliche, “You can’t ~~chase~~ change anyone but yourself.”

Whether celebrating or mourning, I should start that process with or without someone. I’ll work on balancing my expectations so maybe then I won’t hurry up and wait for you.