Sometimes I write

It’s a violent thing to be alive

You say his name like you’re caressing it, as if you could hold his body against your tongue without your teeth curving into his spine. The flowers that bloom from his blood, they fill your lungs, curling into the spaces between your ribs - You name them all after him.

Does your  heart  ever skip  a beat at the sight  of perfectly  arranged  letters?

We are the story that lives underneath the bed, that never meets light.

you taste like red yet you look like blue and you all you are is the shades between black and white cause all you know is grey

Everything in me gravitates to you.

Don’t waste sunsets with people who will be gone by sunrise.

To everyone wondering if they will ever move on. Yes, you will. It will take you some time. By ‘some time’ I mean a long time. It won’t be easy. In fact, it will probably be the hardest thing you’ll have to go through. Moving on is messy. It is either being too happy or too sad at 3am. It is laughing till your stomach aches, or crying till there are no more tears to be cried and you just feel dead inside. Moving on is the shaking of your hands and the breaking of your voice when you realise that there will never be a them and you again. Moving on is wondering what you did wrong and why you just weren’t good enough for them. Moving on also means eating less and drinking more alcohol than you should. It also means stopping everything that you’re doing and thinking about them. Actually, you will think about them a lot. You will see their favourite restaurant and you will think of them. You will hear their favourite song and you will think of them. You will look at your coffee and the shade of brown will resemble the colour of their eyes. At one point they will be all you think about. It starts the moment you wake up and never ends because even in your dreams they will be haunting you. But one day you will wake up and you will feel okay. The next day you will feel more than just okay, you will be fine. You will think of them still, yes. But it’s going to be a different kind of thinking. It will be a “wherever they are, I hope that they are fine and happy” kind of thinking. You will have moved on. You will have survived this hell. You will slowly but surely forget them more and more each day, and forgetting will never have felt that sweet. But you have to let yourself hurt before you can heal, remember. To everyone wondering if they will ever move on, you will.

There are people in this world who will start a fire in your soul. Some are burning forests; others, a fireplace in your home.

You never think someone will leave until they leave, and then you start to think how easy it is for you to be left.

Drunk, blissfully and shamelessly drunk, partly on wine and partly on soft lethal things and partly on nothing except the chance to drop my defenses for a little while in a world which comes to seem to me increasingly desolate in those very places which I once considered the only meaningful things.

Hope is the thing that kills me / More than pain or betrayal And even more than a goodbye that Really does mean goodbye / Hope wriggles its way into my heart — my goddamn heart, as confined and secure as it is — And takes it over. And From the smallest seed of hope Grows a jungle that I don’t know how to get out of. And then someone comes along (Their own heart a forest fire) And burns me down Until there’s no hope; until There is nothing left At all.

So when was the last time you heard from them, the last time you saw their face? Do you still remember what was said and done at that moment? Does it hurt or does it make you smile?

I’ll tell every one in the world that you are the only one that matters.

The past is only as alive as we keep it by remembering.