It was late August. We’d walked home with our eyes on the horizon, watching while soft pink spikes of heat lightning split the sky open. You had been holding my hand, of course, as you always do, always did. Back in your one-room apartment, we made love on the futon in your living room, the kind of desperate sex only impending departure, only indefinite separation can create. After, we showered and crawled under the sheets together, lay with our limbs intertwined, nothing between us but skin and the sadness to come. 
 
I hadn’t wanted to fall asleep, had hoped to lie awake all night,  to watch you sleeping; to memorize the lines that spread from your eyes, the shape of your rising chest, the curve of your neck where my lips had found their home. I’d wanted to use my hands; wanted to make sure, one last time, I knew you by touch alone. I’d wanted to absorb every ounce of you, soak you into my skin, my bones. I’d wanted to hold you so tight there would be no room left for doubt, for questions. I’d wanted to inhale your breath as you sent it away, wanted to show you that even what you gave up I would keep; that every part of you was perfection to me. 
 
What I’d wanted, truly, was the impossible: to send away the dawn, let the future find itself a new victim. 
But of course the morning came, as it always did, always will. So I quietly pulled myself from the safety of your tight, warm arms. You stirred, opened your eyes, that magical shade of blue I already knew would forever stop me in my tracks, leave me gasping. I watched as those beautiful eyes, at first confused, remembered, registered what was happening, bravely blinked back tears. We kissed, silently, the harvest moon hanging low and heavy outside the window. And in that moment, I’d wanted one last thing; to tell you one thing I still did not know for sure myself, one thing I did: it will all be okay, I love you.

It was late August. We’d walked home with our eyes on the horizon, watching while soft pink spikes of heat lightning split the sky open. You had been holding my hand, of course, as you always do, always did. Back in your one-room apartment, we made love on the futon in your living room, the kind of desperate sex only impending departure, only indefinite separation can create. After, we showered and crawled under the sheets together, lay with our limbs intertwined, nothing between us but skin and the sadness to come.

 

I hadn’t wanted to fall asleep, had hoped to lie awake all night,  to watch you sleeping; to memorize the lines that spread from your eyes, the shape of your rising chest, the curve of your neck where my lips had found their home. I’d wanted to use my hands; wanted to make sure, one last time, I knew you by touch alone. I’d wanted to absorb every ounce of you, soak you into my skin, my bones. I’d wanted to hold you so tight there would be no room left for doubt, for questions. I’d wanted to inhale your breath as you sent it away, wanted to show you that even what you gave up I would keep; that every part of you was perfection to me.

 

What I’d wanted, truly, was the impossible: to send away the dawn, let the future find itself a new victim.

But of course the morning came, as it always did, always will. So I quietly pulled myself from the safety of your tight, warm arms. You stirred, opened your eyes, that magical shade of blue I already knew would forever stop me in my tracks, leave me gasping. I watched as those beautiful eyes, at first confused, remembered, registered what was happening, bravely blinked back tears. We kissed, silently, the harvest moon hanging low and heavy outside the window. And in that moment, I’d wanted one last thing; to tell you one thing I still did not know for sure myself, one thing I did: it will all be okay, I love you.

(via plasmatics-life)





 



Of course I had known the day would come for comparisons; it always did. You were the stable, the secure, the safe. You were fruit and coffee in the morning, a glass of wine by the fire in the evening. You were Sunday dinner with your parents, spring break on the coast every year. You were sex just before bed, hand holding on Saturday sidewalks. You were jokes every once in a while, gentle puns making me giggle. You were good advice, serious discussions of careers and investments. You were gentle looks across the room at your company party, “I love you” every night as you turned off the light. You were bouquet of flowers for my mother, fifth of scotch for my father.
He was the charming, the spontaneous, the mysterious. He was pancakes at 2am, dancing in the kitchen in our underwear, singing into wooden spoons. He was Wednesday night shots of whiskey, middle-of-day “pack your bags, we’re going to Greece” calls. He was 3pm lovemaking on the living room floor, surprise morning sex in the shower. He was making out in line at the coffee shop, hand in my back pocket while we wait for bagels. He was quick-witted remark making me laugh so loud strangers stared, my breath coming in gasps. He was “I can’t live without you” one day, not to be found the next. He was forgetting dinner with my parents, last-minute call to say he couldn’t make it.
I wanted you both, wanted your strong arms wrapped around me, his professions of love whispered into my ear; wanted you to make love to me on the kitchen counter, our dinner forgotten in the oven. I wanted to fly across the world with you, stay up jetlagged and drunk off cheap wine, swearing the stars shone brighter there. I wanted to come back to our little home, our not-so-little mortgage, your suit-and-tie job and my blossoming career. I wanted your guidance, wanted early-to-bed during the week, wanted Saturday morning runs and Sunday brunches. I wanted not to know what to expect, but I wanted to plan it all; I wanted to know someone would be by my side for all of it. I knew it was too much to ask, knew I would need to compromise, need to give up part of that childish dream. And, as I rolled over to your sleepy smile, to a whispered “good morning, beautiful” as the sun was streaming through the curtains, I considered the most important difference of all: here you were. 

Of course I had known the day would come for comparisons; it always did. You were the stable, the secure, the safe. You were fruit and coffee in the morning, a glass of wine by the fire in the evening. You were Sunday dinner with your parents, spring break on the coast every year. You were sex just before bed, hand holding on Saturday sidewalks. You were jokes every once in a while, gentle puns making me giggle. You were good advice, serious discussions of careers and investments. You were gentle looks across the room at your company party, “I love you” every night as you turned off the light. You were bouquet of flowers for my mother, fifth of scotch for my father.

He was the charming, the spontaneous, the mysterious. He was pancakes at 2am, dancing in the kitchen in our underwear, singing into wooden spoons. He was Wednesday night shots of whiskey, middle-of-day “pack your bags, we’re going to Greece” calls. He was 3pm lovemaking on the living room floor, surprise morning sex in the shower. He was making out in line at the coffee shop, hand in my back pocket while we wait for bagels. He was quick-witted remark making me laugh so loud strangers stared, my breath coming in gasps. He was “I can’t live without you” one day, not to be found the next. He was forgetting dinner with my parents, last-minute call to say he couldn’t make it.

I wanted you both, wanted your strong arms wrapped around me, his professions of love whispered into my ear; wanted you to make love to me on the kitchen counter, our dinner forgotten in the oven. I wanted to fly across the world with you, stay up jetlagged and drunk off cheap wine, swearing the stars shone brighter there. I wanted to come back to our little home, our not-so-little mortgage, your suit-and-tie job and my blossoming career. I wanted your guidance, wanted early-to-bed during the week, wanted Saturday morning runs and Sunday brunches. I wanted not to know what to expect, but I wanted to plan it all; I wanted to know someone would be by my side for all of it. I knew it was too much to ask, knew I would need to compromise, need to give up part of that childish dream. And, as I rolled over to your sleepy smile, to a whispered “good morning, beautiful” as the sun was streaming through the curtains, I considered the most important difference of all: here you were. 


Though it was a clear, warm night, the fog horn still sounded in the distance, reminding her of the beauty, the vast expanse that lay just beyond the buildings around her. Sleep had not come easily to her these past few weeks, but sadness had, so she’d taken, once again, to wandering those city streets, drawing her hand along the brick, the stucco walls of houses as she passed. It was a weight she was not sure she could carry: this pending goodbye. It was a change too big, a departure too painful, to face head-on. So she walked.

She found herself, in the not-quite-blackness of a city night, standing in the very place she remembered stumbling upon three years earlier, the first time a view of that majestic place had made her cry; nowhere near the last.  And, of course, once again she felt tears come to her eyes. This time, though, they were the tears of heartbreak, of being torn away too soon, of being unsure she had made the right choice.
But, alongside the sadness, she also felt welling up inside her something new, and realized with a slow-spreading smile that it was gratitude. So she stood in the middle of the street, looking out over the hills and toward the water, and let her tears be a thank you to the city that had come to feel like home, the people who had come to feel like family, and the lifetime she had managed to fit into those three short years.

Though it was a clear, warm night, the fog horn still sounded in the distance, reminding her of the beauty, the vast expanse that lay just beyond the buildings around her. Sleep had not come easily to her these past few weeks, but sadness had, so she’d taken, once again, to wandering those city streets, drawing her hand along the brick, the stucco walls of houses as she passed. It was a weight she was not sure she could carry: this pending goodbye. It was a change too big, a departure too painful, to face head-on. So she walked.

She found herself, in the not-quite-blackness of a city night, standing in the very place she remembered stumbling upon three years earlier, the first time a view of that majestic place had made her cry; nowhere near the last.  And, of course, once again she felt tears come to her eyes. This time, though, they were the tears of heartbreak, of being torn away too soon, of being unsure she had made the right choice.

But, alongside the sadness, she also felt welling up inside her something new, and realized with a slow-spreading smile that it was gratitude. So she stood in the middle of the street, looking out over the hills and toward the water, and let her tears be a thank you to the city that had come to feel like home, the people who had come to feel like family, and the lifetime she had managed to fit into those three short years.

(via thesewallsarecomingdown)


The blinds knocked in the summer breeze coming through your open bedroom window. The occasional hum of passing cars and children’s laughter floated up from below as we lay naked in our sun-drenched skin, our hair still wet from cold, late-afternoon showers. I awoke to find our legs intertwined, your hand resting gently on my thigh. You were still asleep, your dreams flickering across your eyelids. And, as I lay there watching your dancing eyelashes, the exact shade of my grandfather’s wheat field in late July, I felt it. So as sudden as all this may be, as complicated and inconvenient as it may seem, please know I am sure of one thing: you have brought me back to life, and I may very well want to spend the rest of mine waking up to the simple, stunning beauty of your golden lashes.

The blinds knocked in the summer breeze coming through your open bedroom window. The occasional hum of passing cars and children’s laughter floated up from below as we lay naked in our sun-drenched skin, our hair still wet from cold, late-afternoon showers. I awoke to find our legs intertwined, your hand resting gently on my thigh. You were still asleep, your dreams flickering across your eyelids. And, as I lay there watching your dancing eyelashes, the exact shade of my grandfather’s wheat field in late July, I felt it. So as sudden as all this may be, as complicated and inconvenient as it may seem, please know I am sure of one thing: you have brought me back to life, and I may very well want to spend the rest of mine waking up to the simple, stunning beauty of your golden lashes.

(via whenitallturnstodust)





 



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)