People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up
And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss them so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.
— Rosie Scanlan, On Missing Them (via dandelion-days)
I need to find passion in life again, I wake up, I do what is required of me and I never get excited anymore.
Help me get it back.
You’ve been the wolf, you’ve been the bear,
you were the grass when I was air,
the hush of the lake, eyes and lips,
a shyness at my fingertips,
a motion that knew when to slow,
the forest where I always go;
and now you are the windowsill
I rest my elbows on until
the night grows dark and I can’t see
these silhouettes of you and me.