I Do Not Want To Go Home Yetpleasestay Here With Meor Don'tthis Silence Is An Oxymoron Quiet And Fillingsoft

I do not want to go home yet please stay here with me or don't this silence is an oxymoron quiet and filling soft and jagged breathless deep breaths This lonely is heavy drawn hotel curtains is permanent blue-grey winter twilight is days spent staring at the constellations of my ceiling 

I do not want to go home yet I know life is beautiful for some people sometimes just not today stay here with me leave me alone with you go away please don't, stay please don't stay with me here here we are only what we are not what we imagine I am tired of imagining I want to be real with you

I want                                                                                                                 

not to go home 

yet

please

don't make me

Who did it better? 003

Blue Hair:

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court vs. Keirn of the Hunt Kingson 

Mother, I am scared I cannot sleep There is a monster under my bed In the closet In my head It is all the things I have left unsaid It wears the most terrifying face of regret And whispers to most vile things Of everything that could have been It smells of sorrow and leaks puddles of tears Yet it never moves Like it is frozen in time Staring off at some distance thing Right through me As if it knows I am the one who has created it As though it knows I am the one who keeps it trapped here                                As though it can see all that would have been Just right there behind me But it never moves. This is what scares me most

Paola

Paola is tight brown curls and music note earrings. She is mismatched knee-high socks and thrift store band t-shirts.

Paola is sunshine smiles that crack you open and brown eyes that sew you back together. She is lilting music box laughter and the softest kind of surrender. She is a reminder that there is still good in this world, and that maybe I deserve some too. 

Paola has long since stopped asking me if I am okay but always makes sure I am before I leave. She is the embodiment of salvation, of mercy. She does not ask questions but instead makes the answer clear. She is from a softer place, a kinder era, yet belongs nowhere but here.

Paola is friends with father time and a favourite of lady fate. She is poetry's lover and muse. She is not the kind of girl who's presence demands to be written of. She is not the kind of girl that makes you feel something that compels you to take note of.

Instead, she is the kind of girl that poetry craves. That poetry unfurls itself for on the tip of every tongue who dare speak her name because Paola, is poetry material.

5 Phases of Missing You

1. Like a drug addict. All craving and obsession. 

2. Like a drug addict in withdrawal. Violently. Constantly. 

3. Like missing summer. Fingers crossed and longing. Knowing there is nothing I can do to bring you back around but wait for the world to keep turning. Wait for fate to decide.

3. Like missing summer. Meaning sometimes I forget to miss you at all, until I look outside and realize you are no longer there, and fall asleep to images of you leaking into my dreams. 

4. Like missing childhood. Knowingly and resentfully and kindly. Wishing I had made more of it when I had it. Realizing I will never have it back now. Trying to recreate it, recapture it always. But it is gone. 

4. Like missing childhood. You left me with scars and fond memories. But you are gone. 

4. Like missing childhood. I miss it quietly and softly and out of the blue. But it is gone. 

5. Like missing hiccups. Remembering the way breathing hurt when you showed up for 5 solid minutes before youd disappear for however long you pleased. Remembering you were always annoying as hell whenever you decided to show up and wrack my body and leave me breathless. 

5. I miss you like hiccups. Meaning I don’t. 

did you know the wind won’t take your name back anymore?

I didn’t know how I was going to begin this - did you know the wind won’t take your name back anymore? I’ve learned that stars aren’t the only things that fall when silence closes the door between your heart and another shoveled spring. I would ask your tears what shape they prefer when midnight kisses the snow, but I know how many miles it takes to write a chapter on sleep. I’ve heard forgiveness talking, can you hear light too? can you taste the paint of the years we spent looking out the same window, but never planted a hand in the ground? I dream about tomorrow like each comma doesn’t take a breath from my smile, like your eyes aren’t drying roses hanging promises upside down on the corner of every mirror. if I could pause your heart on every I love you knitted along my skin, I would have another photograph of us. today wasn’t great..but then there was you.