I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’
The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.
It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t coma back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain. Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there and you have too. You’re nodding your head.
—Henry Rollins, The Portable Henry Rollins (via observando)
There’s all this bullshit going around about wanting to be missed at 3AM. That is crap. I don’t want you to miss me at 3AM. I want you to miss me when you wake up in the morning after dreaming about me, missing the days when I wasn’t
justin your dreams. I want you to miss me when you take a look at your phone and realize you can’t call me or talk to me like you used to. I want you to miss me when you’re drunk and stumbling through the room, wishing I was there for you to look for. I want you to miss me when you’re out and you walk past someone who smells like me or has the same color eyes as me. I want you to miss me when my favorite song comes on. I want you to miss me when you’re with your friends, realizing that you’d rather be with me. I want you to miss me when you gaze at your empty hands, missing my touch.
ThenI want you to miss me when you’re still awake at 3AM and you’re lonely without me there to hold you. I want you to miss me in every waking hour, not just when it’s after midnight and the loneliness forces you to think about all that went wrong. I want you to miss me every waking hour; I want you to miss me the way I miss you.
Home’s the place we head for in our sleep.
—Louise Erdrich, from “Indian Boarding School: The Runaways” (via litverve)
I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming.