I felt I was on fire with the things I could’ve told you. I just assumed you eventually would ask. — Conor Oberst (via writingsforwinter)
(Source: black-eyedsusans, via thebpdaughter)
The day my marriage ended.
(Source: ajasin, via lucitania)
Following a poor night’s sleep.
You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you; I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we shared, at some moment, the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage. — Anais Nin (via arrow-and-oracle)
(Source: winged-serpent, via thebpdaughter)
(Source: jupiters-ring, via rat-bougris)
Of everything I have seen,
it’s you I want to go on seeing:
of everything I’ve touched,
it’s your flesh I want to go on touching.
I love your orange laughter.
I am moved by the sight of you sleeping.
What am I to do, love, loved one?
I don’t know how others love
or how people loved in the past.
I live, watching you, loving you.
Being in love is my nature. — Pablo Neruda (via larmoyante)
(Source: larmoyante, via lucitania)
Writers are forgetful,
but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.
Writers are forgetful
the important things.
(Source: ofheightsandhollows, via thebpdaughter)