How Many Times Can Someone Fall Out Of Love?

How many times can someone fall out of love?

Trick question.

No one ever really falls out of love.

Not all the way atleast.

For love is a shape shifter if I ever knew one.

.

I will die on this hill

And you will not know

Because you would have left

My heart at home.

So I become a peony.

The ground holds me kindly,

The same way she has cradled bones and buried teardrops,

Until I disintegrate into her embrace.

I will not be waiting for you when you come back for me.

.

The stars are all already ghosts.

And perhaps they are proof that there is a life after this one in which beautiful things are possible.

That we might bring someone hope in their darkest moment even if we are too far gone to be bound by the gravity of holding someone's faith in our palms.

.

I have nothing to offer you but potential.

Do with it what you will.

I hope you will find a better use for it that I have.

The most reckless thing I ever did was forgive you.

Mostly because I couldn't help it.

.

Please, stay with me until I forget.

I am frightened.

I am

Scared.

I am really

Scared.

For freedom is lonely.

And regret a vicious companion

.

~I don't know what I mean but I hope you do (02.20.21.)

the song of achilles is a story about the heartbreak that happens once in a lifetime, the heartbreak that kills you and drives you mad, the heartbreak you wish you'll never experience, the heartbreak that tears you apart until you lose yourself.

circe is a story about the heartbreak that you endure every single day, the heartbreak that consumes you from within, the heartbreak you know you can never escape from, the heartbreak that is so much a part of you that you don't even know yourself without it.

im sorry guys i just finished reading these two in a week and now idk what to do w my life thanks

Yesterday we spent the afternoon together again. While sitting in the sun searching for a conversation worth having, I consider asking you if you think you would survive the apocalypse. But I know you will ask me the same question in return. And I know I would not survive. If the zombies or meteors or sickness or end came for me, I would not be able to run. I would probably face my end thinking of my mother and scared. I am not good at survival. I am not good at staying away from the things that can kill me. I am not good at hunting for food, but I am good at sitting still and letting myself be devoured. I am not good and filtering water, I always seem to have a knack for swallowing the most obvious poisons, mostly because I am always thirsty. Always insatiable. I am not good at healing. And no one will have time to wait for me to stop picking at my scabs and writing poetry in my own blood until I decide I deserve to heal. I am no good at taking what I need or fighting to live. But I think if the apocalypse or the end or the sickness or the meteor or the zombies came for us right now, you and me, in the afternoon sun, I think I would survive a moment. I think you would take my by the arms and shake me until I realized I had to move, I have to keep going, because you are not leaving me and to stay means your demise too. I imagine you tugging me along to safety. I think of you keeping me alive and I do not know why. Or why I am thinking of this. I think of you saying my name. I think of how safe its pronounication feels on your tongue. I think of you not leaving me behind. I think of your hand in mine and the end coming for us and I am not afraid. Because for some reason I am safe here and know I will always be.

Is it safe where you are?

The most selfish thing I have ever done is forgive you. Stopped picking fights just to stab you with the parts of me you shattered.

You cry me symphonies but I have never had much of an ear for music. Our desire dripping on carpet; harmonies in dissonance.

I dye my blood your favorite colour before I slit my soul open but you still don't come to the funeral. I told you once that I had poems running in my veins for you and you tore me open as I slept and drank me dry.

I tell myself it is not your fault you do not know how to be loved. And how often it is lost on us that nightmares are dreams too.

~what a miracle it is to hate you now

In another universe the sky is always pink and I didn't give up on you, in another universe I'm a better person and magic is real and in an another one we still walk around the streets at late night holding hands and in another, we are together

I think if I have to come undone for someone, I would rather it be you.

Which is to say, I would prefer it to be you. Which is to say, I would like to unravel, and I would like it to be at by your hand. Which is to say, I would like to earn the honour of being loved by you. That I would like to have the pleasure of loving you unconditionally.

Because I think that if I were to give you my heart, you would treat it kindly. That if I were to show you my scars, you would memorize their pattern. That if I were to bear my soul to you, you would bear yours to me. I would like to love you and be loved by you, if you think you wouldn’t mind it. 

Because I know you will always offer me the hot water for my shower first. And even if I never take you up on it, I know you will. I want that with you.

I would like cabinets over flowing with tupperware and glass jars and old ice cream containers in the fridge filled with your mint chutney. I want bookshelves crowded more with your hand bound make-shift notebooks than novels. I want to grumble about stolen covers as I wake chilled in the morning and laugh it off clinging to you for warmth instead.

I want sunlight filtering in through our curtains on Saturday morning to dust your lashes and cheeks and still being allowed to be the one to wake you. I want to watch you dance with a broom across the living room (as I wipe down the kitchen counters) singing to a song from a musical I haven’t listened to but have become familiar with through moments like these. I want you to try to teach me how to cook and not mind when I mess up the soup I attempt to make you when you fall sick. I want to be there when you are sick. 

I want to be allowed to care for you. I want to do so many loads of laundry together we forget who’s pjs belong to who. I want to stop caring about what belongs to who with you. I want to feel you slip into bed next to me at 3 am still scented with your favourite take out I left on the table for you because I knew you would be home late. I want that with you.

I want to memorize your favorite take out order and how you like your tea. I want to memorize at least 75% of your playlist. I want to be allowed to hold you when no one else is. I dont care if I’m always your plus one but I want to be the first person you call when the night is over. Your tipsy phone call filled with soft smiles and hiccups. I want to be the person you come home to. I want you to be the person I come home to.

I want to let you convince me that we should get a cat. Even though I have never owned a pet in my life. I want to realize it has grown on me as we both hold fast to your pillow in bed while you are away because it smells like you. 

I would like to be allowed to miss you, in a gentle aching kind of way. The kind tinged with the reassurance that you will be coming home to me, eventually. 

I don’t care what the books say. I want to hold your hand until the butterflies migrate out of us and we watch them flutter along the ceiling dancing with ribbons of sunlight. I want to know you until your presence evokes nothing but peace. I want to find peace with you. Which is to say, I would like to, if it is all the same to you.