Nights are spent wide-eyed.
Scribbling countless, pointless nothings.
Embedding them in my mind. For you.
Scrawling them on paper. For everyone.
Perfectly placed. Carefully thought out.
Counting on you to find them. Find me.
You didn’t lose me. No, no, of course not.
I lost you.
But I did not lose you. I remember everything.
You see, I wrote it all down. To forget forgetting.
I could never forget you; not you, always you.
I know you down to your marrow.
I lost you but I still have you.
So these words, this is me.
Me, bare for you, because you seem to like that.
Because you used to like that.
It’s all written out for you to see.
For you to break or borrow.
For you. A map of my heart.
Here’s beseeching you to remember.
Imploring you not to lose me after leaving me.
Refusing to breathe until you find me.
These words. This. All of it. Everything.
It is all for you. I thought you should know.
This is what you did. This is what you inspired.
-Dylan E. Young
And when you feel that way, you want to feel that way again. Forever.
(Source: hernameiskayla, via thesummerofmark)
When I pulled away for the last time, the things I meant to put into words were still being contained.
I can’t remember what exact words were laid out, but I don’t need to. There was something in your tone of voice that I could clearly identify; that little inflex and the way you swallow the ends of your carefully phrased sentences. Even with closed eyes, I still see you. The straight nose and painfully elegant eyes; a constant shit-eating grin or a smirk; the furrowed brow, attempting to keep the sun out; the mess of soft brown hair on your head and a five o’clock shadow after a week’s growth; those spindly hands and sloping shoulders from years of poor posture.
The gray light of morning is now beginning to leak into my vacant room. I don’t think too much anymore about your absence. It’s a matter of time, time, time.
Of course the intentions were downplayed, but the actions were quite contrary.
What started in candlelight ended with eyes clenched shut. Open arms turned into hands closed around your bed post. Looking up at you turned into you, on top of me. Have me any way you want, but how do I kindly push you off and explain that holding me after is the last thing I desire. We got what we came here for. I’m done with pretending I can’t be that girl. I can.
You’re making me sick.
He’s making me sweat.
He’s getting me off.
I’m sweating you out.
You are not a dream.
You are a nightmare.
(Source: satansbaby, via infinitescribbles)
