Living Happily Half Empty

Sympathy’s easy. You have sympathy for starving children swatting at flies on the late-night commercials. Sympathy is easy because it comes from a position of power. Empathy is getting down on your knees and looking someone else in the eye and realizing you could be them, and that all that separates you is luck.

It's like you don't exist.

I want your Monday morning sleep soaked eyes dream drenched voice, lazy bones ‘five more minutes please babe.’ I want your Tuesday afternoon coffee break, glasses off, laughter on ‘just hold me for a while it’s been a hard day.’ I want your Wednesday evening fingers through hair teeth nibbling nails neck craning, eye glazing ‘this paperwork never ends’ I want your Thursday night drinks for two bones unbind muscles let loose flats, slacks, ‘just me and you’ I want your finally Friday stretch soul smile, sun sipping light from the glaciers in your eyes fingers unfurl, hand extends ‘c’mon babe, lets go wild’ I want your weekend. your movie marathon Saturday reading by the fireplace kissing in the blankets want your Sunday morning orange juice and pancakes white sheets, tender skin hair like the Fourth of July ‘let’s not get out of bed today.’ I want your ordinary and your stress, rest, release I want your bad day and that terrible night I want you drunk in my arms forgetting the place but never my name I want your lazy and your lonely and your fist full of fight I want you everyday in every way for the rest of my life.

alcxhol:

A short story is a different thing all together - a short story is like a kiss in the dark from a stranger.

Some choose to drown in alcohol escape from every memory that stabs their chests with salt-stained cheeks and vodka breath Some choose to drown in sorrow to lock the bathroom door as if reality lived outside its walls and the shower floor is the only solace left Some choose to drown in others empty date after empty date until faces blur back into the one they miss and the present can’t dilute the past Oh, but we’re all drowning in oceans that seem endless until our tears turn back to clouds until our legs walk back to shore until we all learn to breathe air instead of sadness and smile again

I’m painfully aware of my heart beat, I can feel it in pulsing in my neck, wrists, and pounding in my chest. Its so loud I’m shocked you still call me heartless.I’m shocked you can’t hear it 6 feet away. But honestly I think thats its better that way.

Fuck. It’s ironic how empty I am because 

Do you think its possible that some people are born to give more love than they will ever get back in return?

I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.