people
do not settle
for the things that fade easily

you may think
that what i meant
were material things

but no
people
don't settle for
love
family
friendship
hope
faith

things that fade, eventually

*things that fade all the time

familiar faces
and empty spaces
fill the silence
and the sadness
and the loneliness
of the gap between us

rogue glances
accidental touches
are all we have

it's as if we are miles
and miles
and miles away

but it's only a few inches between us

so close
yet still so far

so broken
but still so in love

if you want to love someone
love someone
who bleeds ink
and eats words

if you want to find true love
find it in a person
who cries poetry
and sleeps on stars

if you want to be loved
make sure to be loved by someone
who drowns in books
and is always alone

why?

because those who
bleed ink
eat words
cry poetry
sleep on stars
drown in books
and are lonely
know what love is
they've lived it
experienced it
gave it
a million times
in a world only they know

My mom once told me there were four parts of a movie.

I asked her, is it the beginning, the body, the ******, and then the conclusion?

She shakes her head, no she said. It's the play, the pause, the rewind

That's only three I thought. I leaned closer as she explains to my eight year old brain what it meant.

The play is when the excitement first builds. It's the thickness of air around you, but still you run out of breath. She says. It's the beginning of the adventure, the beginning of everything.

She takes a breath. She presses the cigarette **** against her lips. She takes a sip from her wine glass.

The pause is where you reevaluate things a little. She begins. It's where something takes you away from your track, and it leaves you baffled, so you stop a little, digesting what went wrong.

She takes another drag from the cigarette.

The third one is the rewind. Her eyes turn a little glassy. It's deciding that the movie was good enough, that it's worth rewatching. That somehow, you can overlook the bad parts and rewind again, replay again, because to you it was that good.

Mom and I stayed silent for a long time. She kept sipping from her wine glass.

I swallow. You said there were four parts, I say.

She looks at me, and her eyes were filled with sorrow, pain. Anger.

The last part, she spits out, is the stop. It's deciding halfway through the replay that it simply won't work anymore. That it needs to end. That the bad things will always be present and cant be overlooked. That the excitement isn't worth it anymore.

She takes a deep breath. She stands and ruffles my hair. She kisses me goodnight. I close my eyes and listen to her heavy breathing fade through the lonely halls of our home.

Later that night, while I was in bed, I get the distinct notion that she wasn't talking about movies and their parts at all.

if i were to continue living
the way i do now
bitter, cold, unforgiving
blind to help and love
deaf to the screaming
of my soul
then when i meet death
and fall to his clutches
and when i am stripped
of skin, of flesh, of material things
the world will see
my bones are rusted steel
my heart is melting ice
and everthing else
are hollowed rocks

*and time will come
when god will ask me
what i am, what i was
while i was alive
i would say
i was dying
i was already dying
i was always dying

To love and to be loved are two different things.

For one, loving means hurting yourself.

And to be loved is to hurt someone without knowing.

somebody once asked me what falling in love felt like.

so I said, Imagine coming home after a long day at work. You just got off the phone and your ears feel numb after almost an hour of your boss screaming endless insults. You climb up the stairs, stop at your door, grab your keys and just go inside. Once you've opened the door you're suddenly hit by the most amazing smell ever. You follow the delicious scent and when you get to the kitchen, there on that table, you see the best looking croissant ever. Its shell is golden brown, flaky, and it looks warm, and the butter is melting, hugging the croissant so tenderly, like a mother would hug her child.

the person laughed, that's funny she said you have a weird way of looking at love

a few beats of silence passed by. then shyly, she turned to me, fumbling with her words. she asks, what about falling out of love? what does it feel like?

i sigh it's like biting into the delicious, butter covered, golden brown croissant, only to find out it's not your favorite flavor.

we stay silent for a long time.