Lately I have been missing you with the kind of terrifying, singular intensity that could split the ocean floor—drown out nuclear bombs—tear out the heart of the sun. You live in every last flame of every peeling wax-soft candle, in pockets lined with lint, in orbit with the brand new satellites they shoot up into the stratosphere these days, in small dust mites that crawl across the wooden planks and concrete blocks on my grandmother’s back porch, halfway across eight time zones. In the smell of freshly stacked newspapers. In libraries, between secret pages and love-notes and a lipstick kiss pressed dearly on an end-paper. In the sole of a shoe. In every cloud that races against time toward the sweetly won horizon. In spikes of grass on a college campus lawn, in three empty jugs of milk in the gutter of a street, in the love between a man and a mangy dog, in that friction of a finger pricking against a rose bush, in reflections cast by tricky window lights, in long hairs lost in morning showers, in the padded drum sound of feet across an early morning carpet, in tired children at the end of a long day, in the tires of bicycles that pass above the city sewers, in rainwater, in saltwater, in sealed interiors of submarines, in rusted emergency fire escape ladders, in the heart of New York City, in the neon sin of Vegas, in bored people sitting behind office receptionist desks, in gas stations by the interstate highway, in the comfort of a book, in a motorcycle’s purring engine, in an unwritten harmony for the worst pop song ever to exist, in the girl at the grocery market picking apples, in all colors, in no color, in a complete and utter lack of color.
This is how it is—how it has been—how it will always continue: you are (nowhere) and you are (now) (here). I’ll write your stories for you, make up words and worlds, until I can sketch you into the air with thoughts alone. Everything, alive, and everything you are not.
“Look at your mistakes like battle scars and love each one dearly—failing at life is also about adoring your failures because they are etching you out as some sort of person. And even if you’re not entirely sure who that giant failure of a person might be, you’re pretty sure you like them, and besides, it’s been a whole lot of fun becoming them, which is the most perfect way to fail.”—Kat George - Thought Catalog
“It hasn’t even been a month, and I can already make out the solar system growing across my skin. By the time we’re together again scientists will have named me a new galaxy.”—Malandragem - A Series of Goodbyes
Saw how the other half lives. Had a limo and a table and bottle service. Every girl wore Louboutin’s or Jeffrey Campbell’s and looked like a model. Every guy was dressed like they’d just stepped off of a Paris or New York runway with a jawline to kill. Liked it, loved it. But it felt so fucking temporary.
“Love, desire, and need get all confused and they fight and switch clothes just to fuck with me. But all three burn and ache and when mixed are this dangerous chemical compound that releases poisonous gases from my eyes, clouds of readable smoke, inscribed with all my naked wishes and poetry. And these are the times I want to close my eyes to the world, and these are the times that they are so wide open I scarcely take the time to blink, usually racing from one club, one bed, to another. Love is what makes me keep writing and trying and doing it over and over until I get it right.”—Thea Hillman, from Depending on the Light
“Imagine that the universe is a great spinning engine," he said. "You want to stay near the core of the thing - right in the hub o the wheel - not out at the edges where all the wild whirling takes place, where you can get frayed and crazy. The hub of calmness - that’s your heart. That’s where God lives within you. So stop looking for answers in the world. Just keep coming back to that center and you’ll always find peace.”—Eat, Pray, Love