i'll love you till you call the cops on me.
-lorde, writer in the dark

my love for you has no limits
boundless like the ocean
of which its rivers of adoration
flow through me
like electricity

“Dear Uncle David, I want to thank you again, and Wallis, for having me at your home in the Bois de Boulogne. It’s a rare thing that fate should allow a former king and a king-in-waiting to meet. To tell the truth, it opened my eyes to a few things. To the nature of kingship… the nature of love… and all the difficulties that go both… I’m sure you know the family would have preferred me not to visit you. Afraid, perhaps, I might recognize myself in you, sympathize with you. Well, let me confess that I do recognize myself in you. Your progressiveness and flair. Your individuality and imagination. What a king you would have made in a kinder world. What a king we were denied. It makes me so sad to see you living in exile, when all you did was take a stand for principle, and love one woman completely. You were cruelly denied your right to reign alongside the woman that you wanted by your side. But I give you my word I will not be denied what you have been denied.  The Crown is not a static thing resting on one head. It is moving. Alive. Divine. The changing face of changing times. And if, God willing, it has been ordained that I should wear it… then I shall do so on my own terms… and hopefully, make you proud.” - Prince Charles

all of my emotions, all of them – heartbreak, ecstasy, grief, love – just punched me in the gut. and now i am nauseous. nauseous over reading a book, but in a good way, as weird as that may sound.
–––
reading about love is a hard thing to do when you've not experienced it yet. but i'm holding on to optimism; hoping that i don't have a boring rom com sorta love, but one that makes me want to rip my hair out one day, then bask in its splendor the next. gosh i just want it to be real. maybe that's why i feel this way.
because it's real.

my adolescence was meant to be viewed through
orange tones and heavily grained film

Kept under your bed is a rope of dried twigs,
Elderflower and lemongrass,
Exudes from the chipping paint.
Go, now;
Away from those who remember you leaning upon the neighbourhood postbox,
Next time, I’ll have younger skin.