i tried to make someone fall in love with me. but, in the process, with every witty comment and genuine kindness that slowly evolved and manifested from my own humor and not his, i fell in love with myself.

fall! in! love! with! yourself!!!!!

People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
But sometimes
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up

And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.

Rosie Scanlan, “On Missing Them” 

Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep, and you are in California, Australia, wide awake. Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone, maybe love is not ready for you. Maybe you are not ready for love. Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type. Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered. Maybe love is only there for a month. Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit. Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t. Maybe love shouldn’t.

"When love arrives" - Phil Kaye and Sarah Kay 

Dead Poets Society [Peter Weir, 1989]

 

I Think I Am In Friend-Love With You" written by and illustrated by Yumi Sakugawa, published in Sadie Magazine, 2012.

Romans had to find a new word for ‘war’ when they realized it sounded too much like ‘beautiful’ in Latin. Not all fingers are pins to a grenade, but here you are, still waiting for an explosion to go off somewhere. There are ways to love gently,but you gave them all to someone else. I want your hands, and I don’t care that they did all the the right things to all the wrong bodies before. The sky’s not on fire, and it never was, but it sounds more poetic than saying I can’t control the way time burns everything down. The stars stopped showing up because we asked them for too much. They were falling, and we should have saved them, but we couldn’t stop weighing them down. Baby, you’re every burning building I don’t know how to stop. Put yourself out, then come back here and love me the right way.

Y.Z, the soft spots we had to dig for 

You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing
another woman
in the toilet.

In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach:
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner, say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner; everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.

Someone told you once, a soul mate is not the person
who makes you the happiest, but the one
who makes you feel the most. Who conducts your heart
to bang the loudest, who can drag you giggling
with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in.
It has always been him.

In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights or olive oil,
not everything you have ever loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
lying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.

At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like new paint?

You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like you are always
ticking inside of me and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.

Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be,
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.

Sierra DeMulder, Unrequited Love Poem 

(via naivestars)

Her eyes are classic novels and poetry.

Isaac Marion 

A word that does not exist in the English language:

Ya’aburnee
Arabic – Both morbid and beautiful at once, this incantatory word means “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.

(via naivestars)

Do more than belong: participate. Do more than care: help. Do more than believe: practice. Do more than be fair: be kind. Do more than forgive: forget. Do more than dream: work.

William Arthur Ward