because you’re young,
and you can get away with stuff like that

because, why not?

It’s strange, making a photograph of someone.
You sit with their image, hours after the shoot.
You work with it, burn here, dodge here, fill there, color correct, etc, etc, etc.
And you stare. You gape. At the flecks of color in their irises, the curvature of their lips, the rounded edges of their shoulders, the ledges of their collarbones
And you really feel like you’re spending time with them.
In a way, unconventional yet visceral in every aspect. With no words to create misunderstandings
Your eyes take in the minute details of their face, their smile, their eyes.
And you really begin to feel like you know them

So, if you ever pose for a photograph and the next time you see the photographer, you feel as though they’re being overly familiar with you, understand this: They do know you. Better than the people you encounter everyday at work, at school. They know you because they’ve spent time intimately surveying your face, creating their art, doing what photographers do - seeing you.

The Phenomenon

You know when you are first startled by something beautiful. You are in awe. Astonished that something could exist in that perfect balance- that tension between real and imagined. But the longer you stare, your vision clears. You see cracks, flaws, blemishes. The flawless becomes so obviously flawed and the beautiful becomes damned, like the rest of us. Mere mortal and inherently faulted.

I think love at first sight but persisting love is when you keep staring. And that phenomenon of clarity breaking perfection never occurs. 

I keep looking, looking, seeing. Everything changes, but nothing changes. Before my eyes is still perfection.  

And I won’t rest until I have it. (What makes you different?) 

I have no interest in those who have no interest in me

It’s been okay I think I’m doing fine then your picture pops up on my news feed and goddamn if you’re not the prettiest thing still and I feel the walls of my chest constrict and I wonder to myself “goddamn why are you not still in his arms, feeling those pretty lips place perfect kisses across your skin” and I sigh. I sigh hard

He was in love with the idea of her
Unfortunate for him, ideas eventually meet reality and their deaths are often caused by that direct contact.

tigerbythetoe:

If you’re a sham, I’m a sham.
We’re birds of a feather.

I think I’ve sensed it, encroaching on my mind, body and spirit. I think I’ve run away from it and I think it even chased me once. But I’ve never given into “love.” It’s the worse drug and probably the only I’d become addicted to, so I stay away from it. The falls, even minor have already been so devastating. I’d rather be in love with myself.

It still hurts
Everyday.
And having our eyes collide like they did after so long of carefully crafted avoidance
Was too hard.
I could feel the knife slip in, wedge it’s way between the vital organs and just sit in the viscera
For a whole second there was just shock.
Nothing before everything
Sharp, hollow notes of pain bouncing off a tin roof shelter put up as a shaky first line of defense
We pitter-pattered in light conversation, I aching as your steel blue gaze cut through my center
Why couldn’t you just let me be?
I miss you so much
More than I thought I could
If I could go back and change it, I would never have done any of it
I don’t want a taste
If I could, I would take it all back.
Let my mind be spotless

why is it the white house?
why can’t it be the black house

axiom

[ak-see-uhm]
noun

1. a self-evident truth that requires no proof.
2. a universally accepted principle or rule.

the fall

It wasn’t graceful
or oriented in any which way
It wasn’t scheduled
and didn’t run on any clock that even existed on this planet
It was that moment when you first asked me to meet you at a museum
It was when I realised not everyone was privileged to your clever asides
It was when you asked me where I went, when I withdrew into myself and ran the motions as an outward projection of “paying attention”
It was when you looked at me and saw something I don’t think anyone else ever has
It was when, with tired eyes, you told me that I needed to pay attention. Pay attention to what was really going on in this world
It was when you asked me what my biggest fear was and I told you without hesitation, the brakes released and my lips parting as if I were reciting a grocery list
It was when we were laying apart but beside one another, the drowsiness clouding your gaze, in a quiet silence of cars passing on the street below and I felt soothed by you and that studio apartment
It was when you looked at me directly in the eyes and told me that someone would fall in love with my idiosyncrasies
It was when you told me that you had slept soundly, for the first time in a long time, because of had been done and because it made you feel certain that things were being set right
It was when you saw me at my very worst and still believed me at my very best

It was a thousand moments, stitched together by the sound of your voice and the smile on your lips. It isn’t a dizzying, fierce love that sears. It’s a transitional, ebbing affection. The kind that sparks with soulmates and dies in old age. But more likely when circumstances wrests apart. But I’ll always remember you as you were, even when you’re thousands of miles away. I hope you remember me

body parts

wrists, ankles, the nape, hip bones
the overlooked
often are most diaphanous in their simple aesthetics
nothing but lines and bones
tissue and flesh
lines and bones
  lines
and
  bones
and i’ll love you for it

“It was her wrists,”

I remember
in the aftermath,
How hollow I felt.
How so empty could be so full at the same time
I wanted to cry - for you, for me, for “if”
A statue unyielding in the tart breath of winter
I sat, feeling the cold seep into my jeans
And despite the heaving I felt within the confines of my ribcage
I could do nothing
But stand.
Despite the sun, I could see nothing

It doesn’t seem real anymore, you know.
I’ve rubbed your presence from my mind’s eye
Washed your whisperings from my flesh
Promised I’d never fall for anyone like you
Because I did
Fall
Like a schoolgirl, fresh on the yard
Uninhibited and deceived by sweet fruit that bore lies
You convinced me of something beyond the “now”
And I fucking believed you
What a sick fucking joke.

I’m repeating myself, aren’t I?

Sometimes, when it’s late at night
And the house is quiet
When you can hear only the creaks of the settling walls
And the symphony of the the ocean winds brushing against the windows
My mind drifts back to you
And the gaze you held so tenderly towards me
And the words you gifted me
The sweetness of promises of worth
Something tangible when I felt so swallowed by the unknown
The feeling of your flesh against mine
Warm, human and unintrusive
I forget the thrusts of the blades of betrayal
Forget the rusty stains of heartache
Forget the scars of a time the mind has instinctively buried
And I let myself plummet
Back into that warmth, false like the flickering flames of an electric fireplace
All appearances, no reality
And I miss you
I hate it
But to dig my nails so deeply into the flesh of memory
And drawing blood
Has never been so satisfying

killingcharlemagne:

denouement: the outcome of a complex sequence of events - noun