You’re sleeping, but I just need you to know that I’m still in love with you. I’m so in love with you that it hurts. Every time I’m without you, it hurts. You make me feel like I am forever. You are my happiness. You are every single constellation. You’re perfect and I love you so much.
—  // I almost called you, again. 4:06 AM
Two a.m.” He swallowed, then said, “You know. The person you can call at two a.m. and, no matter what, you can count on them. Even if they’re asleep or it’s cold or you need to be bailed out jail… they’ll come for you. It’s, like, the highest level of friendship.
—  Sarah Dessen, What Happened to Goodbye

I want to meet the fucker who said “its better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”

Because sometimes you will love and lose someone who was never yours to begin with

Sometimes they don’t love you back

Sometimes it would have been better for my stupid heart to stay beating in my chest than stumble out into someone’s hands who wasn’t ready to catch it

—  b.n.s
When I came with you that first time
on the floor of your office, the dirty carpet
under my back, the heel of one foot
propped on your shoulder, I went ahead
and screamed, full-throated, as loud
and as long as my body demanded,
because somewhere, in the back of my mind,
packed in the smallest neurons still capable
of thought, I remembered
we were in a warehouse district
and that no sentient being resided for miles.
Afterwards, when I could unclench
my hands and open my eyes, I looked up.
You were on your knees, your arms
stranded at your sides, so still –
the light from the crooknecked lamp
sculpting each life and delicate twist,
the lax muscles, the smallest veins
on the backs of your hands. I saw
the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow
pulsing at your throat, all the colors
in your long blunt cut hair which hung
over your face like a raffia curtain
in some south sea island hut.
And as each bright synapse unfurled
and followed its path, I recalled
a story I’d read that explained why women
cry out when they come – that it’s
the call of the conqueror, a siren howl
of possession. So I looked again
and it felt true, your whole body
seemed defeated, owned, having taken on
the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists
loosely bound with invisible rope.
And when you finally spoke you didn’t
lift your head but simply moaned the word god
on an exhalation of breath – I knew then
I must be merciful, benevolent,
impossibly kind.
—  Dorianne Laux, “2 AM,” What We Carry