nooneknowsnothing:

The world read each word
and clapped high;
but you never realized
that every metaphor
was a declaration of my heart
to your heart.
Despite I’m young at love
nothing can stop
this rhymes I thought,
or the way I feel
when I imagine you real.
What can I do?
Should I stay silent
or…

joshuarobertlong:

there is no barrier
between vintage and
old

I remember you

there were tears while on the toilet
and we argued with each other
about love
and I sat clutching the wall between
the floor and the shower
there was always so much
hair in the drain

you just sat there on the toilet
crying
tearing and streaking across the
walls

there was no love left inside of
you or maybe there was no life
left inside of you
or maybe there was both
and both were gone

I remember you

no barrier left between
the vintage and the old

after the wall I left for the trail
and walking along with headphone
eyes I played myself a song from
the past

I came back and you were gone

retrospect says you were probably off
with him then making what sense
you could of how you had changed

I was still on the floor then
between the floor and the ceiling
debating just how one gets off the rock
in such a fever

I remember you then

by the time we were back
neither of us were crying

there were no tears left to run away from

we sat there and said our goodbyes
on a basic

and months later through a sorrowful
minute of sex and the customs officers

both of which led me to the donut shop

and I was there alone for six months
until the call

then you left

went off on some highbrow dream
of seeing the ocean

the one we always lived around

the barrier between vintage
and old

thegreatestactor:

It was my luck.

A couple of beers in
and in walks the man
of my dreams.

I’m coy.

And I’m never coy after
a couple of beers in,
so I buy another drink
thinking it will
loosen me up
some.

But there’s this
hold he has over me,
his confidence, something

laughing, something missing

and I stare
(but it’s more like I’m

thegreatestactor:

I remember
when you told me
about the first time
you fell in love:

Dolores O’Riordan
of the Cranberries
when you were
in middle school.

We were lying in bed,
and I held your hand
while your absent eyes
searched for a memory
somewhere beyond the
ceiling of the bedroom.

I remember
holding tighter