#webweaving is a new one for me but i'm having fun with it so far

[geneticdriftwood]

persephone's in hell; a rooftop conversation

for @mysterycitrus

persephone's in hell, @mysterycitrus // white winter hymnal, fleet foxes // assorted dc comics

[choysum]

someday, things will be different.

someday, the ghosts will move out. we'll pitch them off the cliff into such sharp rocks that even the filament is dashed to pieces, and we will leave their graves well-decorated by the seaside, and the cottage all covered in flowers and rot. nature will reclaim it without us.

then we will move to the city for a few years. (it's what the young do best.) and these years will be filled with trains and neon and heartbreak outside movie theaters and making up on the swings in the park at three am. I will kiss you in the rain and you will twirl your umbrella over us so our angels can catch the flying water on their tongues. you'll do my eyeliner like the girl in the picture, and I'll pull you in just to mess up your lipstick and smear it all over both of us. I'll leave dandelions pinned by post-it poetry on the apartment door, so that even when you and I have odd hours, my words can still carry through part of your day. you'll teach and I'll take up a hundred little odd jobs while claiming I'm "still finding my passion".

then we will move out of the city, because it smells and people are rude and I've been finding less kindness in the busstop strangers lately, but really it's just because we're not so young these days. we'll find a new favorite cafe and spot for dinner, and both of these places will be far more affordable, and we'll be saying we should have done this years ago. I'll get antsy like I do and drive out to every surrounding town and take you on adventures through them, and you'll find even more things than I did to love. we'll adopt an animal and grow native plants in the garden and I'll be so frustrated that first year after two-thirds of them die off, and then I'll plant a million more of the third that didn't. we'll visit my sister in the spring (by then you and her will be quite familiar) and she'll ask if we're happy, and we'll say yes. we'll stir up petty little dramas because really nothing's been wrong between us for a very long time, and sometimes it's fun to play-fight and let somebody win so the other one can "make it up" to them.

then we'll live happily ever after. the blanket you made us will grow old in our closet. every letter we ever wrote to each other is kept in the same shoebox in the shelf above it. our library is filled with poetry and real-life webweavings form the wallpaper and we write on everything because we're just horrible with it, ink perpetually smeared on the sides of our hands because we simply never learn and after fifty years we've decided we really shouldn't bother with learning better at all. I'll know every line of your hand.

(- we would have to come to an agreement about how to handle the spiders. you'll probably want to leave the city before I do. I'll use "we're young and queer" as an excuse for everything even up into those fifties and charm you into agreeing with me.)

the cottage covered in flowers, Still Life With Tomato Plant and Sword, an artists' haven on a cliff surrounded by jagged rocks but still the temptation to cliff dive. tombstoning is such a peculiar name for a sport, don't you think?

i have so often the trains and heartbreak and moving to a new city, i know i can hardly go a day without moaning about it - to whom do i have to kneel and pray to receive the warmth of equally returned love. I'll do your eyeliner but the last time i purposefully brough an umbrella with me on a trip was the summer before uni when i was scared this friendship was going to spark out in the next few months of living hours apart and i thought the least i could do would be to have an umbrella to hold over us two (i got very rained on - held it almost exclusively over them, but that can be our secret)

i have to keep reminding myself im just the receptacle to store these snippets of poetry you write because i read them and imagine them, invisage them so desperate to uproot from this life into that. maybe we're in America - would you take me to my first drive in movie if i smiled up at you just so? green thumb? i know what makes your heart ache but not if you prefer cats or dogs

ill draw us a map of all the places we hold dear, I'll have been collecting ticket stubs and receipts for us since before there was an 'us' in your heart to begin with