Have you ever platonically fallen for someone?
For the things they say and how they can always cheer you up, no matter the circumstances?
For how you can count on them and the way they get so enthusiastic about the things they love?
Have you ever watched someone without them noticing and just felt your heart burst of love for everything they do and everything they are, feeling incredibly proud to have them as a friend?
Have you ever been in awe due to the feeling of being blessed by the sheer existence of another human being?
—  // friendship

“I feel like I want to go somewhere,” she said, “like a place for me to call home.”

“Is it really a place,” I look at her,

“Or just a pair of arms?”

—  Lukas W. // Forgotten Words #134 // “What is your home?“

There are
people who will
always come back for you,
and it doesn’t matter
how deep you bury their souls.

in the middle of the night -
they will come for you,
floodlights on and the
barriers smashed to pieces.

and you’ll scream,
and shout,
and yell for them to
leave you alone,
but they won’t.

And you’ll curl up
into a ball on your bedroom floor,
hands covering your ears,
and pray
they won’t break you again.

—  charleigh aleyna.

But I wish I was 16 again when the boys, nearly, nearly had to ask for permission for a kiss, for a touch. Now I owe every man I meet a peck the on the lips, goodbye, hello, nice to meet you, let’s have sex. All of that. I know, don’t lie, please make it better. 

I am sick, I don’t want that, I don’t want to be all sex no love, no heart. Why can I leave this feeling; boys, what kind of poison are they?

—  Cynic, but not very sorry - Knight 
In you I see everything I love. I hear my favorite songs in your laugh and smell my favorite flowers on your skin. When I look in your eyes I see the river I skipped stones on as a child and when we kiss it feels like the first I picked up an instrument. Most importantly in you I see the thing I love more than anything. You.
—  /Oliver

New art journal flip through video

In another universe,
we bumped into each other 
at the coffee shop off campus,
we are both 18 or maybe 19
and there is not an age difference 
that causes you to keep me hidden.

Post coffee shop meet-cute,
we would fall in love 
just as quickly as we did here,
because that is the consistency of us-
we fall and fall and fall
until we can’t see ourselves 
or where we started.

But in this other world,
you would meet my friends and family,
my dad would make weird jokes about me to you
and my little sister would threaten your life 
if you hurt me (I wish she had done that here)
and the catch is:
you won’t be worried 
because you won’t be doing anything wrong.

In this alternative reality 
that I am not sure exists,
you are loving, just loving 
and that is it. Sure, 
you are funny and smart 
and whatever other positive characteristics
you think you have but you don't 
break me.

6 years older
than my teenage heart, 
you should have known better 
but I’ve got a dozen scars that say 
you didn’t give a shit about what you did.

That’s the beauty of alternate universes though,
somewhere we are happy and I am whole
and somewhere else, I kicked your ass 
for what you did and you
know you were wrong.

—  AU || O.L.
In the waiting, anxiety strikes me when I think about all the possibilities : maybe she lost her little bag in the train,
And lost my address and my cell number, and lost her appetite and said “He has no share of the soft rain”.

في الانتظار، يُصيبُني هوس برصد الاحتمالات الكثيرة: ربما نسيت حقيبتها الصغيرة في القطار
فضاع عنواني وضاع الهاتف المحمول، فانقطعت شهيتها وقالت: لا نصيب له من المطر الخفيف

Mahmoud Darwish, In The Waiting -  في الانتظار 


Hair: Even in dimmed sunlight I see hues of brown in your hair and I resist from running my fingers through it. I’ve memorized the dips and hills on your scalp because I’m convinced that my fingertips have ran through your hair as much as you run through my mind.

Skin: There is cotton, and there is silk, and there is velvet but I don’t think anything will ever be as soft as your skin. I could dive in you – or you, me – every day for the rest of our lives until pieces of us are frayed from friction.

Nails: We leave scratches on each other’s bodies and I can’t help but persuade myself that our nails are paintbrushes, our love is the paint and our bodies are canvases. Sometimes you are Picasso and sometimes I am Kahlo and I know that we are symbolic of a masterpiece.

Saliva: You have yet to notice that you lick your lips too often when you’re nervous. The gleam of light on your lips beckons me like sugar and you know that I have a sweet tooth.

Sweat: They say that when you love someone, their scent is like a poison. You asked me what you smelled like and I said you were somewhere between a rainfall and a gentle breeze. I told you that you and the beach during a rainstorm were my two favorite places.

—  The integumentary system of you 
They tell me not to write love poems.
They say, Black people have no time.
The revolution needs protest songs and bleeding banners
and chants that will resurrect
our children.
They say there is nothing revolutionary about black love.
But more black girls die from invisibility
than from gunshots.
We can’t find our own reflections -
because when the world lives like we don’t exist,
eventually we believe it too.
But what is more revolutionary than two forgotten people
drawing each other back into reality?
—  The way you love her is your revolution. Darling, won’t you sing about it?