— Anaïs Nin
I only forgot you in the dim blurs of the lounge room. The early morning was aglow with movement as we made colorful revolutions to distract ourselves from the disconnect that seeped amongst us. Some time before four, when everything hurt more than it should have, I stood beneath hot water with wine coating my teeth and I cried. Today I’ve been listening to old jazz records, certain that we have ruined this. Today I’ve been listening to nothing at all. Winding myself with surging words, small symphonies, the heaviness we keep in our chests. In the silence I can vividly recall the notches of your spine, your fingertips encircling my wrists. In the stillness I consider trusting, I consider trying, I consider the ebb and the flow. I think of knowing when to step backwards. The craters concealed within us. The ways we wilt and grow.
A sorrow that is not mine has pressed against my sides for seven hours now. The wind whispers wonder and the sky boasts three different shades of orange but all I can see are your welling eyes and your shaking hands and I don’t know how to make any of this better.
I could see it going either way, “I’m falling for you” and just as easily, “this isn’t working” You kept looking over at me in between sips of scotch. Once, twice, three times, a fourth. We didn’t say a thing, of course. I feared your affection as much as I feared your indifference and instead of forming real words, I pressed my lips against the side of your neck and hoped that was enough for now.
— Charles Bukowski
6:11 am 3,570 notes
I have bruises I don’t remember getting, my muscles hurt from sleeping strangely and making love and falling over. I have beetroot stains on the palms of my hands and cuts on my knees, I have a watch tan and chipped nailpolish and split ends. It’s summer all over again.
Exploring, last summer
My mother looks at me searchingly; questioning but respecting the distance at which I hold myself, the distance at which I’ve always held myself. At times, I suspect it worries her how I let my thoughts stifle me. I want to shake her and tell her I’m fine, that I took all my vitamins and have no real reason to be sad. When I shuffle listlessly through rooms I’m only thinking of salt water and constellations and forehead kisses. Though between you and me, these seemingly neutral thoughts have perforations and I often dwell on how swiftly sunsets follow sunrises, on how quickly time collapses in on itself and how much it scares me that I’ve made it through another year without any genuine grasp on what it means to lose something or someone.