Know, as it is happening, that this is a moment you will not forget. Pause. Maybe take a slight, almost imperceptible, step back. Smile a soft little smile to yourself as others go on talking, go on laughing. Feel the feeling that will become all too familiar over the coming weeks, the feeling you wish your language had a single word for, you wish some poet had taken the trouble to name. Stand quietly as it fills you up, as your eyes crinkle and your throat fills, as you vacillate between the overwhelming joy, the drowning sadness. Know, as it is happening, that this is a moment you will remember forever, the single image you will look back upon as the defining frame of a three-year movie. Breathe deeply, catch the tear before it reaches your cheek, before anyone sees; because how could you explain to them that sometimes your body is too small to hold all that beauty, sometimes it seeps out the only way it knows how. 

Know, as it is happening, that this is a moment you will not forget. Pause. Maybe take a slight, almost imperceptible, step back. Smile a soft little smile to yourself as others go on talking, go on laughing. Feel the feeling that will become all too familiar over the coming weeks, the feeling you wish your language had a single word for, you wish some poet had taken the trouble to name. Stand quietly as it fills you up, as your eyes crinkle and your throat fills, as you vacillate between the overwhelming joy, the drowning sadness. Know, as it is happening, that this is a moment you will remember forever, the single image you will look back upon as the defining frame of a three-year movie. Breathe deeply, catch the tear before it reaches your cheek, before anyone sees; because how could you explain to them that sometimes your body is too small to hold all that beauty, sometimes it seeps out the only way it knows how. 




Before you go, remember how to live again.
Before you go, call in sick to work. Spend mornings lost among the sun-drenched streets you never found the time to visit.
Before you go, climb the stairs to the roof. Send champagne corks flying into the star-studded sky. Make music with your laughter. Dance to it.
Before you go, begin to write love letters. Address some to the person you will one day be, most to the person you already are.
Before you go, rediscover your best friend. Stay up all night saying the things only she would understand. When the clock strikes three, run through the streets in your slippers, sneak into a park and race to the swings. See whose toes can get closest to the harvest moon.
Before you go, spend a Sunday afternoon dancing in your underwear in the living room. Laugh loudly when you see the neighbor catch you. Wave.
Before you go, remember this life is your one and only. Remember that the only goal is to fill it with joy. Before you go, remember. 

Before you go, remember how to live again.

Before you go, call in sick to work. Spend mornings lost among the sun-drenched streets you never found the time to visit.

Before you go, climb the stairs to the roof. Send champagne corks flying into the star-studded sky. Make music with your laughter. Dance to it.

Before you go, begin to write love letters. Address some to the person you will one day be, most to the person you already are.

Before you go, rediscover your best friend. Stay up all night saying the things only she would understand. When the clock strikes three, run through the streets in your slippers, sneak into a park and race to the swings. See whose toes can get closest to the harvest moon.

Before you go, spend a Sunday afternoon dancing in your underwear in the living room. Laugh loudly when you see the neighbor catch you. Wave.

Before you go, remember this life is your one and only. Remember that the only goal is to fill it with joy. Before you go, remember. 

(via callmerufio)


It was the kind of night neither of us could have expected, the result of coincidence and a thorough lack of planning. We were on that group trip to the seaside, had spent too many days in a row with people we had not chosen. We agreed it would be nice to get away. Silently agreed, I suppose, that if we’d had it, our choice would have been one another. We slipped into the summer night, heavy with salt, walked along the shore and turned at the rock wall where the waves crashed and shot foam high into the air, where it shone, pure white, in the light of the full, heavy moon that had just begun to hoist itself above the horizon.
Crossing the quiet streets of that small town, we chatted like the just-getting-to-know-you friends we were, separately realizing, we would later admit to one another, that maybe, just maybe, this would be something more. In the distance, the lights of the carnival were flashing, and your perfect smile reflected them, your face alternately blue, green, red, yellow, as the games competed for attention.
We arrived, raced from ride to ride, spent money on games both of us had already been taught, statistically, we could not win. When you did, you gave me a stuffed penguin, and we laughed at our overpriced educations. It was dizzying in all the best ways, bright lights and the smell of sugar, air spun and deep fried. Your hand on the small of my back as I attempted, in vain, to knock down milk cans older than either of us. Most of it, now, is a blur, but I remember one moment perfectly: you making me laugh so hard I stopped dead in my tracks, one hand on my stomach, the other on your arm, making you wait while, bent over, I caught my breath.
Later, lying on our backs on the sand next to that wall of rocks, I heard you inhale enough of that salty air to know you were about to speak. And after a pause long enough to make me doubt it, I heard you whisper, “it scares me, but I think I want to spend the rest of my life taking your breath away.” So, because that was more than I could ever have needed to hear from someone as perfect as you, I reached my hand out until I found yours, while the stars burned silently above us. 

It was the kind of night neither of us could have expected, the result of coincidence and a thorough lack of planning. We were on that group trip to the seaside, had spent too many days in a row with people we had not chosen. We agreed it would be nice to get away. Silently agreed, I suppose, that if we’d had it, our choice would have been one another. We slipped into the summer night, heavy with salt, walked along the shore and turned at the rock wall where the waves crashed and shot foam high into the air, where it shone, pure white, in the light of the full, heavy moon that had just begun to hoist itself above the horizon.

Crossing the quiet streets of that small town, we chatted like the just-getting-to-know-you friends we were, separately realizing, we would later admit to one another, that maybe, just maybe, this would be something more. In the distance, the lights of the carnival were flashing, and your perfect smile reflected them, your face alternately blue, green, red, yellow, as the games competed for attention.

We arrived, raced from ride to ride, spent money on games both of us had already been taught, statistically, we could not win. When you did, you gave me a stuffed penguin, and we laughed at our overpriced educations. It was dizzying in all the best ways, bright lights and the smell of sugar, air spun and deep fried. Your hand on the small of my back as I attempted, in vain, to knock down milk cans older than either of us. Most of it, now, is a blur, but I remember one moment perfectly: you making me laugh so hard I stopped dead in my tracks, one hand on my stomach, the other on your arm, making you wait while, bent over, I caught my breath.

Later, lying on our backs on the sand next to that wall of rocks, I heard you inhale enough of that salty air to know you were about to speak. And after a pause long enough to make me doubt it, I heard you whisper, “it scares me, but I think I want to spend the rest of my life taking your breath away.” So, because that was more than I could ever have needed to hear from someone as perfect as you, I reached my hand out until I found yours, while the stars burned silently above us. 





 



As the sun began taking its time getting up in the mornings, so did we. Wrapped in each other and a tangle of bed sheets, we let the world spin without us, let the windows fog up and life go on beyond them. We taught ourselves to ignore the clock, the constant reminder of what was to come. All that mattered was your fingertip tracing circles on my arm, my head resting on your chest as I fell back to sleep counting heart beats.
As the leaves began to set themselves on fire, we too revealed our colors. Slowly, at first; the nervous intake of breath before whispering a secret into the darkness of your bedroom, well after midnight. Your shaking hand extended across the dinner table to take mine. The gorgeous, gentle brushing of your lips against my forehead while we waited for the light to change.
As the city brought itself to life, filled its windows with twinkling lights and settled itself in under the first snowfall, we made ourselves comfortable. I filled your kitchen with the smells of home, brought you cider while you worked on the couch, stroked your hair as you rested your head against my stomach. You learned how I took my coffee, my favorite color, my biggest fear. We held hands at your friends’ holiday parties, kissed under mistletoe and left before they ended, went home to pajamas and a bottle of wine.
It was not the logical choice, of course, but we were too young for logic, too poetic for caution. We could have walked away before our hearts were on the line, could have chalked it up to something simple, something meaningless. We could have saved ourselves the pain we knew waited for us, the brick wall at the end of the straightaway we were speeding down. But what kind of life would that be, choosing safety over serendipity? So instead we chose to jump, chose to spend those precious months giving fall a reason for its name.   

As the sun began taking its time getting up in the mornings, so did we. Wrapped in each other and a tangle of bed sheets, we let the world spin without us, let the windows fog up and life go on beyond them. We taught ourselves to ignore the clock, the constant reminder of what was to come. All that mattered was your fingertip tracing circles on my arm, my head resting on your chest as I fell back to sleep counting heart beats.

As the leaves began to set themselves on fire, we too revealed our colors. Slowly, at first; the nervous intake of breath before whispering a secret into the darkness of your bedroom, well after midnight. Your shaking hand extended across the dinner table to take mine. The gorgeous, gentle brushing of your lips against my forehead while we waited for the light to change.

As the city brought itself to life, filled its windows with twinkling lights and settled itself in under the first snowfall, we made ourselves comfortable. I filled your kitchen with the smells of home, brought you cider while you worked on the couch, stroked your hair as you rested your head against my stomach. You learned how I took my coffee, my favorite color, my biggest fear. We held hands at your friends’ holiday parties, kissed under mistletoe and left before they ended, went home to pajamas and a bottle of wine.

It was not the logical choice, of course, but we were too young for logic, too poetic for caution. We could have walked away before our hearts were on the line, could have chalked it up to something simple, something meaningless. We could have saved ourselves the pain we knew waited for us, the brick wall at the end of the straightaway we were speeding down. But what kind of life would that be, choosing safety over serendipity? So instead we chose to jump, chose to spend those precious months giving fall a reason for its name.   

(via whenitallturnstodust)


It was a morning in late November, the kind of morning that paints the windows with steam so thick it makes you wonder if the world beyond might have disappeared altogether, the kind of morning when that would be just fine. It was the kind of morning for coffee in cups big enough to be cereal bowls, for bagels from the shop up the street, for newspapers and bathrobes and jazz playing almost inaudibly from the radio. It was the kind of morning for reminiscing, for story telling and belly laughs and gratitude. It was the kind of morning that paints the windows with steam so thick you can forget the days, the weeks, the months ahead; the kind of morning for letting the future stay where it should, the kind of morning for forgetting words like “worry”. It was the kind of morning for remembering that living life to the fullest didn’t always mean jumping out of planes, didn’t always mean summiting that peak. It was the kind of morning for realizing that the fullest life you can imagine could sometimes be lived inside those foggy windows, could sometimes mean a gentle smile over an oversized coffee cup.

It was a morning in late November, the kind of morning that paints the windows with steam so thick it makes you wonder if the world beyond might have disappeared altogether, the kind of morning when that would be just fine. It was the kind of morning for coffee in cups big enough to be cereal bowls, for bagels from the shop up the street, for newspapers and bathrobes and jazz playing almost inaudibly from the radio. It was the kind of morning for reminiscing, for story telling and belly laughs and gratitude. It was the kind of morning that paints the windows with steam so thick you can forget the days, the weeks, the months ahead; the kind of morning for letting the future stay where it should, the kind of morning for forgetting words like “worry”. It was the kind of morning for remembering that living life to the fullest didn’t always mean jumping out of planes, didn’t always mean summiting that peak. It was the kind of morning for realizing that the fullest life you can imagine could sometimes be lived inside those foggy windows, could sometimes mean a gentle smile over an oversized coffee cup.


She hadn’t planned to leave that night; had thought she’d get a good night’s rest, start out first thing in the morning. But the car was packed and the moon was full and the air was as warm as it had been all year, so she did not wait for sunrise. She closed the door one last time, listened as the sound of the lock echoed through the empty rooms, bounced off naked walls, reverberated through the place she’d called home for two mesmerizing years. She slipped the key under the door as she’d told the super she would, turned and walked toward the main gate, the skin on her arms suddenly covered in little bumps, defiant in the hot summer night.
At the curb, she checked for traffic, looked both ways down the street she had walked too many times to count, the one she and her friends had stumbled down after nights of dancing, the one she had littered with her tears that day last September when she’d gotten the news, the one she had half-skipped, half-sprinted down the following May when the letter had come to tell her soon, this would not be her home. She walked around to the driver’s side door, slipped in, almost silently, started the engine, tried to keep her hands from shaking, her breath steady. She rolled down the windows, put the car in gear, her right foot resting solidly, unrepentantly on the brake pedal. She had not anticipated, she suddenly realized, how hard this moment would be, how much it would mean, how much it would hurt. She turned her head one last time, looked across the empty passenger seat, toward the building where, if she were honest, her life had finally started. The windows to her place were dark, of course, but she could so easily imagine them as they’d been only a few weeks earlier, draped in Christmas lights, the outlines of her friends, wine glasses in hand, illuminated by the gentle glow. And it was with that very image in her mind’s eye, with a smile on her lips and tears streaming down her cheeks, that she turned back to face the road ahead.

She hadn’t planned to leave that night; had thought she’d get a good night’s rest, start out first thing in the morning. But the car was packed and the moon was full and the air was as warm as it had been all year, so she did not wait for sunrise. She closed the door one last time, listened as the sound of the lock echoed through the empty rooms, bounced off naked walls, reverberated through the place she’d called home for two mesmerizing years. She slipped the key under the door as she’d told the super she would, turned and walked toward the main gate, the skin on her arms suddenly covered in little bumps, defiant in the hot summer night.

At the curb, she checked for traffic, looked both ways down the street she had walked too many times to count, the one she and her friends had stumbled down after nights of dancing, the one she had littered with her tears that day last September when she’d gotten the news, the one she had half-skipped, half-sprinted down the following May when the letter had come to tell her soon, this would not be her home. She walked around to the driver’s side door, slipped in, almost silently, started the engine, tried to keep her hands from shaking, her breath steady. She rolled down the windows, put the car in gear, her right foot resting solidly, unrepentantly on the brake pedal. She had not anticipated, she suddenly realized, how hard this moment would be, how much it would mean, how much it would hurt. She turned her head one last time, looked across the empty passenger seat, toward the building where, if she were honest, her life had finally started. The windows to her place were dark, of course, but she could so easily imagine them as they’d been only a few weeks earlier, draped in Christmas lights, the outlines of her friends, wine glasses in hand, illuminated by the gentle glow. And it was with that very image in her mind’s eye, with a smile on her lips and tears streaming down her cheeks, that she turned back to face the road ahead.

(via brokenwonders)


You had been gone a long time by then. Long enough that it was no longer your face that came to mind as I walked through ancient city streets, no longer your fingers I imagined interlacing with mine as I passed young couples, laughing.
You had been gone a long time by then. Long enough that it was no longer your touch that had last burned itself onto my skin, no longer your voice that crept into my mind when it was late and I was alone.
You had been gone a long time by then. Long enough for other lovers to have come and left, for new bodies, new eyes, to have inspired my pen to move. Long enough for a future without even a trace of you to have set itself down gently upon my imagination.

You had been gone a long time by then, but not long enough to keep my face from spreading into a sad little smile as, halfway around the world, I opened that innocent bottle of hotel shampoo to discover it smelled just like you.

You had been gone a long time by then. Long enough that it was no longer your face that came to mind as I walked through ancient city streets, no longer your fingers I imagined interlacing with mine as I passed young couples, laughing.

You had been gone a long time by then. Long enough that it was no longer your touch that had last burned itself onto my skin, no longer your voice that crept into my mind when it was late and I was alone.

You had been gone a long time by then. Long enough for other lovers to have come and left, for new bodies, new eyes, to have inspired my pen to move. Long enough for a future without even a trace of you to have set itself down gently upon my imagination.

You had been gone a long time by then, but not long enough to keep my face from spreading into a sad little smile as, halfway around the world, I opened that innocent bottle of hotel shampoo to discover it smelled just like you.


When we’d been together a year, I took you to that city by the sea, the one I’d traveled to on my own, when I was young and you— or someone like you— had only been a dream of mine, a wish I had secretly begun to believe fate would never grant me. 
I took you back to the concrete beach covered in rainbow-striped parasols. Told you about the day I spent there, the long, lazy afternoon I’d whiled away. You fell asleep in the mid-day sun, your arm draped lazily over your face. I couldn’t help but stare, couldn’t help a tear from slipping down my cheek. When the shriek of a child’s laughter woke you, you turned to me, smiled that sleepy smile of yours, the one that still gives me butterflies, all these years later. 
You yawned, pressed yourself up and out of your chair, lowered yourself down onto mine. Your body, wet with the heat, pressed against my own, so your nose was perfectly level with mine. You were so close you had to close one eye to see me clearly, which made me giggle. You smiled at the sound, then went quiet, let your face grow serious. 
"This," you whispered so quietly I couldn’t be sure if I’d actually heard you, or just recognized the shape your mouth made against my skin, "is a dream come true." And I pressed my smiling mouth hard against yours, because you had no idea how right you were. 

When we’d been together a year, I took you to that city by the sea, the one I’d traveled to on my own, when I was young and you— or someone like you— had only been a dream of mine, a wish I had secretly begun to believe fate would never grant me. 

I took you back to the concrete beach covered in rainbow-striped parasols. Told you about the day I spent there, the long, lazy afternoon I’d whiled away. You fell asleep in the mid-day sun, your arm draped lazily over your face. I couldn’t help but stare, couldn’t help a tear from slipping down my cheek. When the shriek of a child’s laughter woke you, you turned to me, smiled that sleepy smile of yours, the one that still gives me butterflies, all these years later. 

You yawned, pressed yourself up and out of your chair, lowered yourself down onto mine. Your body, wet with the heat, pressed against my own, so your nose was perfectly level with mine. You were so close you had to close one eye to see me clearly, which made me giggle. You smiled at the sound, then went quiet, let your face grow serious. 

"This," you whispered so quietly I couldn’t be sure if I’d actually heard you, or just recognized the shape your mouth made against my skin, "is a dream come true." And I pressed my smiling mouth hard against yours, because you had no idea how right you were. 


When the excitement stops, begin to wonder. Begin to worry.
When the excitement stops, when even the European vacation, the graduate school acceptances, the promising job offers, the phone calls from handsome, eligible young men, no longer bring you joy, begin to wonder. Begin to worry.
Begin to wonder what it will take to make your heart race again, what it will take to keep you up at night; what it will take to make your breath quicken, your palms sweat, your knees weaken. Begin to wonder what it will take to make you feel alive again.
Begin to worry nothing ever will. 

When the excitement stops, begin to wonder. Begin to worry.

When the excitement stops, when even the European vacation, the graduate school acceptances, the promising job offers, the phone calls from handsome, eligible young men, no longer bring you joy, begin to wonder. Begin to worry.

Begin to wonder what it will take to make your heart race again, what it will take to keep you up at night; what it will take to make your breath quicken, your palms sweat, your knees weaken. Begin to wonder what it will take to make you feel alive again.

Begin to worry nothing ever will. 

(via b22-design)


It was a Friday night in August. We had gone out in the summer heat, gotten drunk on mojitos and danced the way we hadn’t in months. You had run your hands along my body, made me giggle and protest that we shouldn’t be doing things like that in public. When you agreed, we left, and I stood smiling in the darkness on the sidewalk while you fumbled around, tried to flag every full cab that drove past. When you finally managed to get one, we fell into the back seat, filled it first with laughter, then the heavy sound of silence, of locked eyes, of stares too meaningful for words. We kissed, passionately, until the driver cleared his throat, informed us we had arrived.
I waited at the door of your two-story walk up while you paid, tipping way too much like you always do after you’ve been drinking. We raced up the stairs, you tugging at the tail of my tank top, insisting I stop to let you take it off. Just inside the door of your bedroom, we made love. We had sex in the way only drunk couples can, full of desperation and joy, learning each other all over again. After, satisfied and sober, I nuzzled my face into the curve where you neck becomes your shoulder; the place I still swear was made just for me. I inhaled the scent of you: cologne, sweat, skin, a hint of me.  I inhaled, and used the breath to ask you the kind of question that can only be asked in the dark between two naked lovers, intertwined: “tell me about the first time you noticed me. “
I could feel you considering, felt your lips twitch a little at the corners, and smiled, knowing the question had made you smile. You took a long time with the thinking, so instead I said, “do you want to know the first time I noticed you?” “Sure,” you said, “you go first.”
“It was your jaw,” I whispered, and as you laughed I traced my index finger along the line that led from your ear to your chin. “You were at the bar, waiting for a drink, and you were looking away, and the way your head was turned made it so your jaw caught the light, cast a shadow. I couldn’t even see your face and I knew you were beautiful.” You laughed again; this time harder, and I said, “and then it was that. The bartender came back and said something to make you laugh and the sound was like magic, was like the sound I hadn’t known I’d gone my whole life waiting to hear. It was so perfect, the kind of sound that made me wish I could use a recording to define happiness.”
And that was when you stopped laughing. You sat up and turned to me and placed your palm against the side of my face.

You were quiet for a long time after that. You wrapped your arms a little tighter around me, and I knew I’d said something to make you happy in the way that often feels a little closer to sadness. You took a deep breath and began to tell me what I suppose I had already known, “It was your eyes.” I closed them, as if having them open in that dark room might distract you from the memory. “You were standing at one of those high-top tables, the kind that’s just about too tall for you, and you had just finished laughing, and you had this smile on your face for just a moment, and then it fell, and I don’t know if you even realized it, but you looked straight at me, straight through me, and I swear to god I’d never seen anything like it. It was like watching the ocean as a storm approached; first they were the clearest, the purest blue, and then suddenly they were grey, filled with something dangerous, something darkly magical. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew I had to find out what it was that haunts you, had to find out what kind of person saw the world through eyes like that. “

It was a Friday night in August. We had gone out in the summer heat, gotten drunk on mojitos and danced the way we hadn’t in months. You had run your hands along my body, made me giggle and protest that we shouldn’t be doing things like that in public. When you agreed, we left, and I stood smiling in the darkness on the sidewalk while you fumbled around, tried to flag every full cab that drove past. When you finally managed to get one, we fell into the back seat, filled it first with laughter, then the heavy sound of silence, of locked eyes, of stares too meaningful for words. We kissed, passionately, until the driver cleared his throat, informed us we had arrived.

I waited at the door of your two-story walk up while you paid, tipping way too much like you always do after you’ve been drinking. We raced up the stairs, you tugging at the tail of my tank top, insisting I stop to let you take it off. Just inside the door of your bedroom, we made love. We had sex in the way only drunk couples can, full of desperation and joy, learning each other all over again. After, satisfied and sober, I nuzzled my face into the curve where you neck becomes your shoulder; the place I still swear was made just for me. I inhaled the scent of you: cologne, sweat, skin, a hint of me.  I inhaled, and used the breath to ask you the kind of question that can only be asked in the dark between two naked lovers, intertwined: “tell me about the first time you noticed me. “

I could feel you considering, felt your lips twitch a little at the corners, and smiled, knowing the question had made you smile. You took a long time with the thinking, so instead I said, “do you want to know the first time I noticed you?” “Sure,” you said, “you go first.”

“It was your jaw,” I whispered, and as you laughed I traced my index finger along the line that led from your ear to your chin. “You were at the bar, waiting for a drink, and you were looking away, and the way your head was turned made it so your jaw caught the light, cast a shadow. I couldn’t even see your face and I knew you were beautiful.” You laughed again; this time harder, and I said, “and then it was that. The bartender came back and said something to make you laugh and the sound was like magic, was like the sound I hadn’t known I’d gone my whole life waiting to hear. It was so perfect, the kind of sound that made me wish I could use a recording to define happiness.”

And that was when you stopped laughing. You sat up and turned to me and placed your palm against the side of my face.

You were quiet for a long time after that. You wrapped your arms a little tighter around me, and I knew I’d said something to make you happy in the way that often feels a little closer to sadness. You took a deep breath and began to tell me what I suppose I had already known, “It was your eyes.” I closed them, as if having them open in that dark room might distract you from the memory. “You were standing at one of those high-top tables, the kind that’s just about too tall for you, and you had just finished laughing, and you had this smile on your face for just a moment, and then it fell, and I don’t know if you even realized it, but you looked straight at me, straight through me, and I swear to god I’d never seen anything like it. It was like watching the ocean as a storm approached; first they were the clearest, the purest blue, and then suddenly they were grey, filled with something dangerous, something darkly magical. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew I had to find out what it was that haunts you, had to find out what kind of person saw the world through eyes like that. “

(via camilamorrison)