Wearing your old faded shirt, I cuddled myself with remnants of you. Then it hit me, like unseen pieces of broken glass, I bled. I finally realized why it hurt so much when you left me. It wasn’t that I could no longer love you..because I always will. I cried, soaking the only piece of proof I had of us, because you would no longer love me. And that was the worst pain of all.
“
The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones that you have heard and have to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. Thy don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as if you won’t. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again.
— The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy (via ericahill25)
Reblogged from Daydreams
“
It’s 11 am and I’m sitting in a restaurant
3 beers in. Believe me, even I’m surprised
I’m still alive sometimes.
I have been drinking about you for 2 days.
Lately you remind me of a wild thing
chewing through its foot. But you
are already free and I don’t know what to do
except trace the rough line of your jaw
and try not to place blame.
Here is the truth: It is hard to be in love
with someone who is in love someone else.
I don’t know how to turn that into poetry.
3 beers in. Believe me, even I’m surprised
I’m still alive sometimes.
I have been drinking about you for 2 days.
Lately you remind me of a wild thing
chewing through its foot. But you
are already free and I don’t know what to do
except trace the rough line of your jaw
and try not to place blame.
Here is the truth: It is hard to be in love
with someone who is in love someone else.
I don’t know how to turn that into poetry.
— Clementine von Radics (via plumesbleues)
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