sihaya05

[sihaya05]

Words from the mouths of babes, promises ocean deep. But never to keep.

@inanotherunivrse/cocaine jesus - rainbow kitten surprise/fredrick backman, us against you/i lost a friend - finneas/poem - langston hughes/ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous/the underrated heartache - rupi kaur/@sarakleijn/unknown/motion sickness - phoebe bridgers/ @honeytuesday/saw ur mom at the grocery store - abby cates/louise glück, seizure/@thundersoon/ bronze - the regrettes/ritika jyala, the world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire/i still forget we’re not even friends - trista mateer/the light that shines when things end - anonymous/couch sleeper, unknown site/ @saltair-and-palemoonlight/i lost a friend - finneas/dear friend, - dayglow/peter - taylor swift

Requested here

[sihaya05]

That's the cruelty of memory: You do not conjure it up. It rises to the surface whether you will it or not.

[sihaya05]

Jealousy is admiration rotting.

[sihaya05]

My favourite word is Winter.

It’s my fault. It’s just that when we met it was Winter, and her pale blue eyes were almost grey against the backdrop of the winter sky. Beautiful, but coldly so. I haven’t looked at Blue the same ever since. She was warm, all beams and giggles.

And then Summer came, and a mask of sadness clouded her face. She was so beautiful even then, with her coffee-brown skin and dull braids. But she didn’t always feel beautiful in Summer.

In Autumn, that thin veil of sadness lifted a bit, but she was still unconsolable. Only the rainy days could provide her with the solace she sought. On rainy days, she always felt beautiful. And she was always so bright and happy. I miss those days. The dry, scorching heat of the sun in this endless summer always makes her miserable. And when she’s miserable, I am also miserable.

When Spring comes, she has already wilted away in the Summer, so she doesn’t bloom. But she persists, still. My beautiful flower. In spring, she also cries a lot. The kind of crying that twists my gut when she laughs, because it reminds me of how much she cries. Then she starts to smile at me on those rare, few occasions. And something inside me unloosens.

A reprieve.

She’s still here. She still loves me. And most importantly, I still love her.

You can’t save people, but your love can be the means through which they save themselves.

//A love in Four Seasons//