J's Memory Dump

I think love is about being your darkest, most destructive self. To be loved, not in spite of this but because of it.

If this is my heartache, then let it be mine to endure. Permit me to feel it in its entirety. Don’t tell me how much of you I am allowed to love.

I loved you once and now I must spend my whole life explaining why.

“The sad thing is,” she said, “the moment you start to miss someone, it means they’re already gone.”

I talk to you all the time, even if you can’t hear me. I tell you constantly, over and over, how much I miss you and that for me, nothing has changed. I think about the days when we could say anything to each other. My heart is like a time capsule—it keeps safe the memory of you. I know it’s harder with you gone than if you had never been here at all—but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Do you think there is the possibility of you and I? In this lifetime, is that too much to hope for? There is something so delicate about this time, so fragile. And if nothing ever comes of it, at least I have known this feeling, this wonderful sense of optimism. It is something I can always keep close to me—to draw from in my darkest hour like a ray of unspent sunshine. No matter what happens next, I will always be glad to know there is someone like you in the world.

stay soft. it looks beautiful on you