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

And I realize this poem could be longer. But it isn't. Because you never had much of an attention span. And I realize even after all this time I am still writing for you.

A Writer’s Paradox 

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

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.

“Whether you see their relationship as platonic or romantic, their’s is one of needing each other always, even when they don’t particularly want to need each other. Watson would follow Holmes to the end of the Earth, and Holmes would become lost within himself without Watson.”

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?! KIT AND TY OR WHAT!? DO YOU SEE WHAT @cassandraclare DID RIGHT THERE!? IcOnIc

The Detective and His Doctor

There will never be a greater partnership than that of Holmes and Watson. 

Whether you see their relationship as platonic or romantic, their’s is one of needing each other always, even when they don’t particularly want to need each other. Watson would follow Holmes to the end of the Earth, and Holmes would become lost within himself without Watson.

A crop and a laptop, a knife and a watch, a violin and a cup of tea, a bottle of pills and an itchy trigger finger, a death wish in the form of a syringe or a pistol. 

His drug and his war.

Two halves of a whole, destined soulmates, irrevocably linked. 

Moriarty nor Magnussen could never elicit a world such that Holmes or Watson would be separated, whether through death or otherwise.

Mycroft and Lestrade would support and protect both men undoubtedly, but Holmes and Watson would do such for each other until their dying breath. 

Mary or Irene could only provide a romantic relationship which would fall lifetimes short of what these two men could offer each other, if given the chance.

Across countless different lifetimes, storylines, and universes, there is always the lighting sharp wit and the strong, steady patience, the brain and the heart, the druggie and the soldier, the scientist and the blogger, the detective and the doctor.

Always the detective and his doctor.

And it is always 1895.

I would give up all my heartbreak poetry for you.

A Writer’s Paradox