I paint a picture with the thoughts of my past.
Every inch of me remembers the way the light hit your eyes just enough to give them a warming glow; a soft kiss.
Every part of me reaches out to touch your stubble-bearing cheek,
but my fingers feel nothing,
except the piercing cold of empty air.
We all miss someone. I miss someone, all the time.
A burst of Artistic Disaster: Did you even ever love me? -
hadn’t i already told you that my bones were rusted and my heart too cold to feel? that it had been too long since the funeral of all the good in me? hadn’t i told you not to be awed by the words i speak; writers are born liars, love. hadn’t i told you to not to read between my lines, that the…
Marilyn Monroe photographed by Alfred Eisenstaedt (1953)
(Source: mostlymarilynmonroe, via lets-fuck-eachother)
As our souls grow cold with winter’s tears,
We cover ourselves up from our everyday fears.
For one day we will become,
The person that we once ran from.
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. — Edgar Allan Poe
“You want to know what happiness is? It’s waking up in the middle of the night for no reason, shifting under the blankets and feeling the heat of the person next to you. You turn around and see them in their most peaceful, innocent, and vulnerable state. They breathe as though the weight of the world lays on anyone’s shoulder but their own. You smile, kiss their face in the most gentle manner so as not to wake them. You turn back around and an involuntary grin forms on your own face. You feel an arm wrap around your waist, and you know it doesn’t get any better than this.”
There’s a point where death kisses your lips.
A sweet taste of afterlife.
Darkness oozes from your mouth; your soul.
A gentle caress from your only lover.
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips. — Alfred Tennyson