Latest Posts by sundayafternoonsedentary - Page 2

I am pacing back and forth in my apartment, trying to keep from calling you with a fistful of matches. Any friction, and I will start a fire. 

The thought of the pain I may cause stops me nearly every time. Nearly. Deep down, I don’t want to hurt you.  In times like these, I forget that I can plant instead of burn. 

I am restless and cold and in need of a blaze. It has all grown so grey. I don’t care if I burn myself or you, as long as I can be rid of the fog.

Fire is is vibrant and warm and it flickers and flutters like the universe being born– like I am in control of my life for once–

until it dies down.  Then the grey returns with a vengeance, smoke and ash grey and icy and me truly alone in their midst, with nothing under control. 

I am no god. Fire in my hands  only destroys. It only burns. 

I know we have not talked in a while, but please, let me keep my distance until the sun returns and chases away the grey.  Leave me alone until I remember my love for what grows.

well, that's one way to test how you feel about someone:

drive them away and see if it hurts.

if it feels like your heart is imploding,

maybe you really did love them.

but then - my heart has a habit of tricking me,

of conspiring with my sense of lust

knowing I won't spot the difference for a while.

but are they so different, really? am I really that blind?

it was easier to sleep amidst clouds of smoke

that carried any potential dreams far away.

if I dream now, what will I see?

I don't think I want to know...

not yet.

I keep my eyes open and listen

to the soft rain tapping on my window

reminding me the world hasn't stopped at all, really.

For someone who couldn't sleep in the confines of four walls, her presence seemed much like home,a warmth he had never known

Having spent his favourite times amidst trees, forests and raving waves, she felt much like a storm that hitting broke the sleep of his lonely shore

Where birds perched on trees came down the Earth to meet him, she sprung her wings away from him,soaring high in the sky

Water bend their ways to come pass him by and yet she carried the vigour of an ocean untamed and wild,windy and rough challenging him with her eyes

He could bare himself to biting coldness of any sort, yet the warmth that flew from the tip of her hands caught him off guard like never before

She is in the raving spirit of the sea, the scorching life of the sun, the serenity that gives life to the moon, in his very existence

She is the dream as well as the reality and every liminal space there is to be, she is the day and night and every shade of the sky in-between.

~nt

_ She was a different kind of a wind_

Image from Pinterest

I thought it was the fear of getting hurt

that held me back from falling in love;

now I understand

it was really the fear of hurting others

that was truly unbearable.

Everything is fair

Even if the rules

Were never clear

And we didn't mean

This to be played

Like a game

But this is murder

And it will never

Make sense

To anyone

Why you pushed

Me from the rooftop

While I was whispering

I love you

To the stars

Now I'm lying here-

On this cold ground

Feeling everything turns

Upside down

I close my eyes

Breathe my last

As the wind hums

A requiem

For my broken heart

-requiem for my broken heart, katie

“I don’t want you to love me because I’m good for you, because I say and do all the right things. Because I am everything you have been looking for. I want to be the one you didn’t see coming. The one who gets under your skin. Who makes you unsteady. Who makes you question everything you have ever believed about love. I want to be the one who makes you feel reckless and out of control; the one you are infuriatingly and inexplicably drawn to. I don’t want to be the one who tucks you into bed; I want to be the reason why you can’t sleep at night.” - Lang Leav

and I try to ease my loneliness by weaving all of the love I have to give into every corner of every notebook I can find; but nothing can ever ease the ache that fills me when I realize I have a thousand notebooks with a million stories of love and hope and beauty and not a single person to share them with. -The Awkward Poet

outside my window the

night spreads like a

virus infecting space with

shadow; smothering the solitary

citadels, the white flags, the bells;

stretching on and on it

erodes all color, all shiny things,

turning them gritty and dull with

void; night cannot last forever yet

even now i suffer the well in my heart

drying up, my eyes only seeing the

flowers on my skin by inadequate starlight.

Hands tell stories too.

Wounded hands, scarlet lines running down each wrist, bloody knuckles from punching the wall too hard when it was themselves, not the concrete that they felt like destroying, someone who wants to live so badly but says they want to die.

White hands, numb with scant circulation, held in fists so tight, uncut nails digging in pale palms, wishing for a breath of calm, wishing everything to be alright, wishing everything to just end.

Wet hands, wet from wiping their own tears,someone wondering why they can never be enough, wondering if these will be the only hands which will ever be there when their world is ending.

Inked hands, holding thoughts from dead hours, vague scribbles only one person can decipher, strings of words with their heart in them, words they hope stay with someone out there.

Worn out hands, hard with calluses and blisters, scars from tedious labour visible to everyone but the person they belong to, that person hoping it would be enough to keep the little child's dreams alive.

Coloured hands, shivering, with swirls of cheap paint on them, someone who thought they'd relapse that night, but somehow didn't.

Entwined hands, holding each other, fingers between each other's gaps, sharing their heat and their owners, sharing their whole world.

Cold hands, no blood in them, hands that would no longer grow, no longer change, someone grieving their heart out for a person who thought they would be the only one at their funeral the next day.

Eyes aren't the only windows to the soul.

Look carefully, hands tell stories too.

“i have a problem with letting go of things with clenching my hands like a vice and holding on despite everything it’s why i keep all my memories with me carry them in my phone, on my walls in the little box inside my closet even though it’ll always remain closed i have a hard time letting go of people, of memories that no longer ring true i clutch them like i’d be bereft without them the conversations with people i don’t speak to anymore the photos i want to pull down from my walls the memories i no longer want to recall i never allow myself to mourn i hoard them and keep them close and i just can’t seem to let go.”

— i no longer want to meet new people because i’m afraid one day all they’ll ever be are memories i want to revisit, redo, ones that i want to stay in forever and would forever regret. memories that i would never let go of, but memories, nevertheless | wt.