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If you can love the wrong one so much, just imagine how much you can love the right one.

Comment on a Humans Of New York post  (via alunit)

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You know when you see something and your heart just fucking drops

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treat yourself  like your girlfriend.   i don’t just mean love her, i mean show her that you love her, i mean bask in it. write poems to  only your ribs. when she’s hungry, feed her and make sure she likes it.  if she’s craving chocolate cake  laugh while you eat it.   love isn’t just saying  “you’re beautiful,” love is waking her up gently, is taking her seriously when she has a problem, is letting her get angry or tired or mad, is telling her: hey, it’s okay, i’m here, and we’ll get through this. love is making her pancakes when she says she doesn’t want to eat, it’s watching her favorite movies, it's  keeping every picture you take of her.  love her like wearing a seatbelt and like going on the roller coaster even though you’re scared. love her like  yeah maybe chicken nuggets aren’t the best breakfast but you’re eating and that’s a good thing. love her like there’s six dollars in your bank account but yes,  you can spend it on your coffee. love her like buy that ring, like save for a future together, like  the first person you call in an emergency is her, to ask her if she’s okay,   love her more than just on pretty mornings or  in the light of picnic afternoons. love like  sirens, like let me kiss the bruises,  like yeah you made a mistake but we all do   like even after watching her spiral hard, crying on the floor of her room at two in the morning, her tongue numb and her heart turned to wood - you wake up and tell her, “it was a bad night but you’re alive, so you’re doing pretty good.”

Relationship goals // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

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and girls were so pretty. there was the effortless girls who had the wide eyes, the freckles, the hair pulled back. who didn’t wear makeup and always wore a smile, who knew you needed help before you asked it; the sunshine and picnic girls, who you felt carried spring with them. and the mountaintop girls, strong bodies and fierce in their bones, drinking green tea and teaching you yoga, who watched you and made sure you ate well, who knew what it was to fight for a body that listened. and the soft heather girls who knew nature and spoke gently and would show you how to hear the light hitting a lake, who would listen no matter how long the story was and somehow know what to say. and the girls who were red moons, a dangerous flash of teeth and darkness, an excited wildness that came in black leather and spoke of nights you ache when you remember, who would look at you and pin you to a board for a moment, so that for once you felt important. and the summertime girls, wide smiles and makeup that never smudged, who could make you feel as if you lived inside a photograph, who brought the feeling of the fourth of july to every party, who convinced you to come to the party. and of course the rain girls, who didn’t need an explanation, but simply were, in a way that when you made eye contact with them you knew somehow about sorrow and also about the safety of staying home. 

and girls. girls in their sweatpants in the aisle of a supermarket looking lost. girls staring down their teacher, demanding the grade they deserve. girls with their hands on the wheel, with their hands passing lotion to another, with their hands in their hair. girls upside down on the couch and spine straight in business meetings and body curled around a book. girls who were upended libraries, who were railroads, who were a choir’s last note, who were carols, who were snow, who were a racing track, who glowed or who gave warmth or else sewed cold, who bit hard, who laughed loud, who fell asleep on trains, who rode bikes in rain.

and then there was you.

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https://www.instagram.com/pbuddhaproject/

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