I kissed him today.
And a tiny part of me wished that it
would have been you.
Then I remembered that
your fingertips never wrote
novels down my spine
and your voice didn't
sing melodies into my chest.
You never understod
the stories written on my wall
and on my skin.
In that moment,
I realized that we were
a fairytale;
always trying to be something we never were.
But this with him...is real.
And sometimes, it seems,
the better stories are the ones
we write for ourselves.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
I kissed him today.
And a tiny part of me wished that it
would have been you.
Then I remembered that
your fingertips never wrote
novels down my spine
and your voice didn't
sing melodies into my chest.
You never understod
the stories written on my wall
and on my skin.
In that moment,
I realized that we were
a fairytale;
always trying to be something we never were.
But this with him...is real.
And sometimes, it seems,
the better stories are the ones
we write for ourselves.
