sweetreverie-blog1 - Tumblr blog

[sweetreverie-blog1]

1. When he shows you who he is, believe him.  2. A boy can say he loves you and not understand it. 3. Your love is worth more than what he can give you. 4. Stay strong—he'll return with lily lips. This time, you won't listen. 5. Love yourself first. 6. Be kind. 7. One day, this pain will be a distant memory. 8. And, someday, when you meet the right person (it'll happen)—promise me you'll believe him too.

Words of advice for my sixteen year old self.

[sweetreverie-blog1]

Love isn’t always easy. When the first blush has dulled and the excitement has withered, the monotony of a life defined by compromise can become unbearable. A part of you wants to be free. You miss the ecstasy of endless possibilities, the giddy thrills of carefree adventure. You miss the drunken nights and the strangers you discover one by one by trailing your fingertips against the ridges of their souls. You lust after the secret moments, the passions that last for a season and no more. The spark. A spark that seems to have burned out.

But you keep loving. You let the same person tear you apart day after day and choke down your anxieties. You choose them again and again. Beyond blindness, between betrayals—you love them even after there are no new stories, no grand gestures, no sweeping declarations. Because real love grows out of consequence. You make yourself vulnerable; you grind and sacrifice and you let them change you. You persevere until they are part of your routine, entangled hopelessly in your world. And, like the world, you see them in a light that shifts and morphs, changing with your mood. It is a steady smoulder rather than a flickering flame. And, eventually, you realise that this is the only way to create a love that lasts. This is how it happens—how you learn to live your life as two when you were always one.

— at the end of love (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

I've told you this story a thousand times, in a thousand ways. Well-worn words slip through my teeth and clatter on their way down without you to catch them. You smile, but your eyes betray you. I'm uneasy, but I don't falter. I'm in too deep now. I press on, losing myself to the details—how the light looked, how the air tasted. Like candied smoke and perfume. All these little things I couldn't make you care about. And, I'm losing you. I want to say I'm sorry. I want to explain. I want to give you a reason for each time since the first time. But I don’t. I won't. After all, how could I confess that I relive our love for fear and not pleasure? That each tide of feeling comes and goes, wearing down the memories that brought us together. That each cherished moment risks being overwhelmed by the next? That I am forgetting, but too in love to forget.      I can't. So, instead, I count a thousand and one.

at the end of love (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

You're the boy with the sad eyes and solemn smile, always on the verge of speaking, choking out syllables as though words were made of glass, cutting and scraping, hurting, always hurting. You push with one hand and use the other to draw me in. Closer, you say—but 'closer' is always 'too close' and you're drowning. Love me, you say—but my love burns and you're frozen with indecision, torn between the promised land and the shards of broken promises like bloodied blades that pave the way. It hurts, you say, the words like wildflowers blooming between your lips, and I know—darling, I know.     Love always hurts.

love hurts (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

How long has it been? Months, years, since I've felt the warmth of your hand clasped in mine. But, as suddenly as you disappeared, you're here again and the years slip away easily, quietly. We're time-travellers. Occupying a space before pain, before change—but temporarily. Only ever temporarily.

time machine (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

[sweetreverie-blog1]

Beautiful creature;        fierce, proud and fragile,       scars threaded like gossamer armour       about to unravel. Trembling       beneath love-crumpled sheets,       petal lips that speak       volumes of sweet. Tired darling—        tribute to hurt and survival;        wild allegory of death,       and quiet revival.

my beautiful creature (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

I tried to explain that my words did not reflect reality — rather, they constructed it. They were not things of permanence but a tribute to the temporary nature of life, a feeble attempt to hold onto the moments that seemed to slip so easily between my fingers and out of memory. Yet, how could I expect you, one who is not a writer and resolutely content to live an ill-defined life, to understand a writer’s plight? You see, words have power. Writing is, at once, an act of creation and destruction. Through my words, I make myself, and then… I disappear.

a letter to the non-believers (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

I love the way my name sounds in your mouth—an exhale. As though you were breathless.

h.t.

[sweetreverie-blog1]

You remind me of her, you say, and my heart stops. I've heard those words before. You press your lips to mine, searching for another girl, and I can taste her absence on your tongue.

nostalgia h.t.

[sweetreverie-blog1]

You tell me you learned to bury the pain, to block out the things that crawl, bite and scratch at 3:00AM when there’s nobody to help you, nobody to save you. You’ve forgotten her. You say, “The past doesn’t matter. She means nothing to me now,” and reassure me with soulful eyes that I am everything to you. Oh, darling, I don’t doubt that you love me. I could drown in your sincerity. But I would be a fool to think that Summer could last forever.I’m afraid that, one day, I’ll wake up to the Winter of us, that I’ll be your demon, your new knife’s edge. Another girl, all pretty and sweet, will sit across from you and ask for my name. “Tell me about her,” she’ll say when she really means, “Tell me about you.” She’ll ask questions—our first kiss, the sweater you left on my bedroom floor, the things that had you captivated and why we fell apart. She will ponder our sweet nothings, the promises we swore to keep, our secrets and the feelings we’ll never get back.And, when… if… that time comes, will you tell her that you don’t remember? That, like her, I vanished and our memories dissolved. That love, however pure, however true, cannot endure and everything is meaningless when it ends. You think beginnings are only beautiful because they are beginnings, that beautiful things should last a lifetime. You see, it’s not your past that bothers me but the possibility that, one day, maybe, all this could be forgotten too.

things I could not say #1 (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

You look at her and you feel something stir—a longing. You long to open yourself to her, to tell her things you never had the courage to utter, even in secret, and, for the first time, you curse the oppressive confines of language and memory. You want to remember, when all you've ever wanted was to forget. You are overcome with nostalgia for every day, every moment, of your life that is missing, that you can't share. The words well up in your throat but you are not a poet. Instead, you reach for her. You pull her close, you breathe her in. You hope that your body is library enough; that she can read all of the words that you can't find as she traces her fingers down your spine.

library of me (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

You wanted space so I did what I do best—I disappeared.

erase me with your words (h.t.)

[sweetreverie-blog1]

Kiss me again— the jagged edges of words spoken like a sigh; and I lean in like a sunflower making love to the dawn, compelled, and, as our lips touch, I am made from glass, ready to break and to cut.

synaesthesia (h.t.)