literature

She said that she liked the taste of my kisses. She used to whisper that my breath smelled like a weird yet funny mixture of cigarettes and coffee.
Then, she slowly explained, like if it was no big deal, that my lips were the nicotine she was addicted to, and my tongue the caffeine that kept her up.
Now she kisses another man, with another breath, another tongue to taste.
And again i find myself all alone on the rooftop, drinking coffee to stay awake and smoking some cigarettes, trying to forget that we used to wait for the sunset like I’m doing at the moment.
And now i have that painfully familiar taste in my mouth again.
But no one to share it with.
—  Diego, “Town of the Colossus”
Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those
—  Sylvia Plath
I never understood how people could be so excited to move out. As a senior in high school, I am still not sure what they meant. Yes, I look forward to long nights with new people and a future for myself, but there is so much sadness behind it all. When I think about college and what the next few months hold for me, my mind races. My heart beats faster every minute I consider my life away from home. I’ve eaten at the local diner with childhood friends. I’ve spent countless evenings chattering about in the Mexican restaurant across from my high school. I exchange glances with familiar faces in the aisles of the grocery store. There are memories and people here at home that I’m afraid to leave behind. More than anything, I don’t want to forget them. I don’t want to forget the little things, because those are what matter the most. Here, I have learned hardship and love and everything else I could possibly know. This is where I’ve grown up. This is where I’ve lived for eighteen years, and now it’s time to pack up and leave it all behind. What about my mother? How much will she cry when I’m gone, finally living without her? Will my brother shut himself in his room, feeling empty without big sis to lean on or drive him to school every morning? My father won’t know what to do with himself without his little girl. But I’m not so little anymore, and it’s killing me. I’m falling into this abyss we call the real world and it’s filled with so many possibilities. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what to do. I guess I have to start somewhere, so I’ll make a list. Perhaps I’ll make a list first of everyone I need to say goodbye to. Then I’ll make a list of all of the traditions I need to carry on one last time before I leave. Lastly, I’ll write out all of the things I’ll need to take with me on my journey. Who knows, maybe I’ll be back here again someday. After all, I’m not dying. I’m just moving on.
—  emschleg
We love men because they can never fake orgasms, even if they wanted to.
Because they write poems, songs, and books in our honor.
Because they never understand us, but they never give up.
Because they can see beauty in women when women have long ceased to see any beauty in themselves.
Because they come from little boys.
Because they can churn out long, intricate, Machiavellian, or incredibly complex mathematics and physics equations, but they can be comparably clueless when it comes to women.
Because they are incredible lovers and never rest until we’re happy.
Because they elevate sports to religion.
Because they’re never afraid of the dark.
Because they don’t care how they look or if they age.
Because they persevere in making and repairing things beyond their abilities, with the naïve self-assurance of the teenage boy who knew everything.
Because they never wear or dream of wearing high heels.
Because they’re always ready for sex.
Because they’re like pomegranates: lots of inedible parts, but the juicy seeds are incredibly tasty and succulent and usually exceed your expectations.
Because they’re afraid to go bald.
Because you always know what they think and they always mean what they say.
Because they love machines, tools, and implements with the same ferocity women love jewelry.
Because they go to great lengths to hide, unsuccessfully, that they are frail and human.
Because they either speak too much or not at all to that end.
Because they always finish the food on their plate.
Because they are brave in front of insects and mice.
Because a well-spoken four-year old girl can reduce them to silence, and a beautiful 25-year old can reduce them to slobbering idiots.
Because they want to be either omnivorous or ascetic, warriors or lovers, artists or generals, but nothing in-between.
Because for them there’s no such thing as too much adrenaline.
Because when all is said and done, they can’t live without us, no matter how hard they try.
Because they’re truly as simple as they claim to be.
Because they love extremes and when they go to extremes, we’re there to catch them.
Because they are tender they when they cry, and how seldom they do it.
Because what they lack in talk, they tend to make up for in action.
Because they make excellent companions when driving through rough neighborhoods or walking past dark alleys.
Because they really love their moms, and they remind us of our dads.
Because they never care what their horoscope, their mother-in-law, nor the neighbors say.
Because they don’t lie about their age, their weight, or their clothing size.
Because they have an uncanny ability to look deeply into our eyes and connect with our heart, even when we don’t want them to.
Because when we say “I love you” they ask for an explanation.
—  Paulo Coelho
I miss us too. I always have and I probably always will. Sometimes there are no happy endings. No matter what, I’ll be losing something, someone. But maybe that’s what it all comes down to. Love, not as a surge of passion, but as a choice to commit to something, someone, no matter what obstacles or temptations stand in the way. And maybe making that choice again and again, day in and day out, year after year,says more about love than never having a choice to make at all.
—  Emily Giffin, Love the One You’re With