trapped inside this tiny flat // they are all drinking and you know you can’t join them // tempting as it is, but it’s been five years and that length of time has become something that you’re not allowed to break // you know the scene, painted in strobing orange: jealousy-themed parties, twenty-something mixture of confusion and confidence // who can shout the loudest that nothing about adult life utterly baffles them // no, it certainly doesn’t all feel pointless // no, I am not outraged and lost // no, I certainly don’t shudder at the idea of another fifty years // segregated as a primary school disco: girls at one end, happy drunk and discarded shoes, half-dancing, half-sloshing in time to nostalgic tunes; boys at the other end, fighting drunk and shirts removed, bankers and doctors wrestling in the mud like animals // oh god, why I am sober? why am I here? // sanctuary on the balcony, chain-smoking, anything to keep my hands busy // as long as I smoke, I don’t have to make eye contact // feel sorry for the neighbours, feel sorry for myself // I don’t belong here // I hate this - I hate this - I hate this

- Chris Lees

Have you ever loved someone with a Heart of May?

Have you ever loved someone with a Heart of May, that rare person capable of warming even the harshest atmospheres with the infinite shades of their soul? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I am a nation. But to you, borders mean nothing and comfort zones are imaginary lines on thin, yellowing map paper meant to be torn and thrown out.

It’s something special to meet a person with spring blooming inside of them. A being whose existence naturally lends itself to the hands of impulses as unpredictable as Texas Weather.

You, with the Heart of May, are a sea-kissed shore. Turbulent and dangerous but ultimately a grand compilation of the truest poetry. I stand in wonder atop the sand of your spirit, gazing at the celestial light pouring down from the depths of space, becoming one with the dancing ocean waves.

I never thought it was possible for that to happen between two people.  And yet, here you are—a sea of crashing waves becoming one with me, a stream of starlight dripping down softly from the sky.

—anna herod, @coffeeandexistentialism— 

I’m sorry
That the world
Didn’t rotate in your 
And was not 
Kind to you.

I’m sorry 
That it made you cruel.

—  Zienab Hamdan
There’s this thing that happens when you begin to get over a person, you start to care less. And it feels like you’re being released from these shackles that have been around your ankles for the longest time. And you don’t check on them everyday like you used to. And when you see them with somebody else, you just hope that they’re happy. And I guess you always love them, but not in the same way. You love them and you want them to be happy, but you don’t want to be the reason for their happiness anymore. And you don’t think about them before bed, or cry about them anymore. And you can still feel them in your heart, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.
—  Moving on
I love you

“Text me when you’re home.”
“Call if you’re scared when you’re alone.”
“Tell your family I say hello.”
“What’s the answer?” Even though I know.
“I like your hair that way.”
Listening to every word you say.
“Let’s decide together.”
“Wow babe you really are clever.”
“My arm is fine, it’s not asleep.”
“Turn my phone on so I hear it beep.”
“I’ll help you with those.”
I notice you in your news clothes.
“You look beautiful girl.”
Knowing you’re without makeup, your hair without curl.
The truth is that we’re attached to a phrase.
One that gets cliché in some ways.
I’ll say it still, but I’ll say these too.
These are all the ways I say that “I love you.”

- CrW

I miss her man, I miss her so much. But how the hell do I tell her that?”, my friend asked me once. It might have been the stupidest question I had ever heard because the answer was so obvious. “You do not tell her, you show her. Show her that you care and show her that her presence makes your day better.
—  It is so easy to say things but taking actions is the hardest part. // ck.writes
Do I think of you
because the nights 
are long?
Or are the nights long
because I think
of you?
—  Observations of the Heartbroken and Heart-breakers (g.f.g) // Dilemmas 
I may be an artist, but you my dear are art itself. You are every simile in every poem I’ve never finished. You are the line that finishes the drawings I’ve yet to start. You are the perfect chord in the songs that tell stories I haven’t heard yet. I work hour after hour trying to create what you put in the world just by being in it.
—  /Emily