clandestinewords

[clandestinewords]

it's so much more devastating to fall in love with the idea of a person.

you unconsciously pick out the perfect features that make them who they are, at least in your head. you shape this individual with loving hands, your careful fingers tracing your hopes and wistful daydreams, each stroke another stepping stone to perfection.

except there's just one problem. you can't ever fall out of love.

they didn't stay, but maybe they couldn't, or at least that's what you tell yourself. he's not who he used to be, but hey, he still listens to that one song by the artist you both love, so maybe there are traces of me left in his heart too. he's moved on, but what if he hasn't? he's so perfect that your heart aches just to talk to him, but too many years have passed, and there's too much water under the bridge at this point - so it ends up being a constant push and pull. i don't still love him - but i could.

maybe he's not actually perfect, but he's as close to perfection as i've seen.

he's not handsome, but why does my heart still skip a beat when i catch a glimpse of him? i used to know every single moment of his life, but now i can only watch the rest of it unfold in pictures on social media.

i should move on, but i can't. because you can't fall out of love with someone without knowing why. because yes, he doesn't like me anymore, not in the way he did. and maybe it's okay. maybe i'm okay with being in a sort of listless, forever unrequited, love. and even if i'm not, what can i do? when i reach into the parts of my soul that could help me root him out of my heart like an overgrown weed, i'm gasping for breath. it's either because i'm not strong enough, or it's that i gave too much of myself away and there are incomplete pieces in me that won't ever fight against their lovely captor.

my love for him makes me a hopeless romantic. it makes me a fool. it makes me a huddled figure in my blankets, searching for warmth within myself on restless nights, where i allow myself to daydream about how it could've gone.

maybe i didn't fight. maybe you didn't leave. maybe you'd said 'i love you' too. maybe we could have lasted. and instead of being here, typing this in my desolate loneliness, i could've been talking to my soulmate. maybe you weren't the love of my life. but you are everything i love, in all the ways that matter. i don't demand a kiss, i'd just like to hear you talk.

just one more conversation where i hear you say my name.

i promise that i'll die happy.

[clandestinewords]

there's a quiet kind of love in peeling open an orange, and sharing it with someone. a tender love in listening to a song they like, hoping to see what they see. a yearning to be the subject of their daydreams. a love that reminisces, goes through old screenshots, yellowed pages of a diary from tenth grade and brushes a hand over those scribbled words. a regretful love that lives on in your heart - she'll write the best poetry. a passionate love that finds its footing in love bites and sweetly uttered gasps. an angry love - fuck, why can't i be the person they need me to be? and then, at the end, the normal love. the love that fights, the love that's in your mother's hug, that's in the kiss you give your lover at the end of the day. and now you tell me. isn't love worth all the stories and poems written about it?

[clandestinewords]

STRANGER THINGS      ⮑ Hawkins Locations

[clandestinewords]

There’s two kinds of magical disfigurement. One is trollification, where your magic has gone so utterly WRONG that your body shifts into grotesque shapes just to survive it. It’s nasty, but it’s usually fixable. The other is Elvenification, which is permanent because you can’t fix ‘perfection’

[clandestinewords]

Itō Jakuchū (1716-1800) — White Plum Blossoms and Moon  [ink and color on silk, 1755]