“When I was young I thought every star in the sky was a starfish that swam all the way up to the night, took one last breath, set itself on fire and fell, just so I could make a wish.
Life isn’t like that, it’s like this:
Hard as concrete beneath your feet sometimes, but you keep on walking block by block, mile by mile, cause every aisle in the store is empty
but the sky is never out of stock when it comes to things to live for.”
- Andrea Gibson
It doesn’t matter that you might have a slight tendency towards extreme jealousy
It doesn’t matter that you were one of five sisters
And I have often pictured you at two years old, ripping your mother’s nipple out of your baby sister’s mouth and screaming, “That’s mine, mother fucker!”
All that aside, I can’t imagine it would be easy for anyone to see all out on the line, two decades of panties
And i'ts not even that I got around, it’s that I’m old and I wrote every fucking detail down, DAMMIT, TUMBLR
Tattling piece of shit.
Remember that time I saw the photograph of your mortifyingly attractive ex
And suddenly my field of vision became a junkyard of vision?
I couldn’t get my heart to start
I just kept running my mouth about how I was certain she was a better lover because she lived in Oakland and worked at Trader Joe’s
FUCK ALL THE HOT PEOPLE AT TRADER JOE’S
I know why you would not want to hear every hungry promise I ever haikued into someone’s ear
But not one photo left me feeling like a deer in the headlights
Of a car where her back seat is probably still wetting it’s mouth on the way you breathe the word “Baby”
I don’t believe either of us wants the truth
Filed down and hidden from the guards, my heart and your slingshot
And I swear, we had to be aiming perfectly every love of the way to end up here
Call every other lover the air that carried us in tailwind
Every “do you think she likes me” text you forwarded to your best friend
Every “maybe breakup” you chewed your knuckles for
Every time you cried your makeup off in an airport was you
Unfurling your ribbon heart a thousand red carpets on their way to me
You never have to tell me you did not love hard
I know you.
I know you were all in.
I know you lit up like a Kansas runaway, spotting the Hollywood sign
Whenever you’d leave a room and overhear their mother’s whispering,
“I love her”
Of course they did.
Keep that for you
Call it a hundred poems that were holy true
That we come to each other with all of their hearts inside us
With all that ruin and flutter
Every crushing first fight, where you both cried all night
Trying to gather the wine back into the grape
Ever holiday she was not welcome home and you covered her apartment in Christmas lights
All that tender, and beg, and surrender, and every promise we both broke like bread to feed ourselves better
To come here, jealous and on fire and willing to hold each other
Through every moment the past feels like a sword to swallow
Finally, my love, you must know what I would’ve given to have been beside you all along.
I have to wake up every day and forgive time for teaching me how to waltz before anyone had written my favorite song.
Andrea Gibson, To my love on the day she discovered Tumblr and every single love poem I have ever written to every woman I loved before her
Love is a downpour of shelter
I want to wrap you in blankets until you are so dry you’re wet
I want to come clean in our dirtiest bed
Fuck playing the field
Do you have any idea how wild I could grow in the flowerpot beside your desk?
Baby, all of your petals are welcome here
In every ounce of your drought I will never ask you to weed your fear
And if there’s one thing in this world I’ve ever known for sure, it’s that this girl is gonna crush me like a small bug.
Leave me so frickin’ broken there’ll be body bags beneath my eyes from night’s I cried so hard the stars died. but I’m like, go ahead.
I’m all yours.
I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm ‘cause I’d rather be left for dead than left to wonder what thunder sounds like.
“It is incredible what kind of mess I can make with a nine hour drive and an unanswered text. Yes, that is me crying to the tollbooth man. I say, ‘In the ghost town of our love, there is a player piano trying to prove it can make music without being touched. My finger tips miss her so much.’”