😭 dont say goodbye.
It doesn’t interest me… what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me… how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me… what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know… if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know… if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me.. if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know… if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know… if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, Yes.
It doesn’t interest me… to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done…
It doesn’t interest me… who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me..where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know… if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can’t remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories ar for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.
On our first date, I told you I was flighty. Impatient. Easily bored.
I don’t paint my nails because I can never sit still long enough
for even one coat to dry. I don’t fold my laundry because I hate the routine. I would rather buy new cutlery than wash my old ones.
Maybe I’m lazy. Maybe I have no motivation. Maybe I’m just looking for somebody to grab my shoulders and give me a shake and explain what normal is and why I should do it. But sometimes I brush my teeth for seven minutes straight because it just feels right. Some nights
I put my pillow on the opposite end of the bed because I’m still hopeful that I’ll wake up differently if I sleep differently. I never do.
Sometimes I forget that I’m reading in the middle of flipping a page,
instead struck by the thought we would rather make paper than oxygen, would rather have one less life-source than one less novel. I wonder about priorities. I wonder about people who think it’s necessary to match their socks when they leave the house every morning as if that’s what determines their character. I wonder about people who carry around purses that contain nothing but gum. I wonder about people who spend all their hours at a desk and then return to their house to pass the night alone in a cold bed with a frozen dinner. I wonder if they think that money will make them happier than other humans. I don’t like kissing when I have lipstick on, because I’m afraid of leaving a stain on a cheek, as if I’m marking my territory somewhere I don’t belong, as if I’m trespassing on camera. I stay up for twenty hours a day and spend the other fours hours knowing that the longest a person can stay alive without sleep is ten days. I wonder if my nervous system has begun to break down, leaving me nervous and broken along with it. I don’t understand the pills the doctors prescribed me even though they told me I was just upset over being broken up with. I told them I wasn’t upset, I was morose. I was downtrodden. I was a leaky ship; still afloat but getting lower under the weight of the water every second. I didn’t want to sink. I wanted to sail. But they didn’t tell me that the happy little green and white pills would make me plateau. On our first date, I said I felt flat. Not the kind of flat of calm water on a windless day, but the kind of flat that you associate with deflated balloons. All out of air or out of breath or struggling to find any words left. I felt like the kind of flat that musicians hate. That I hate and I can’t play a single instrument. On our first date, I think I told you I would understand if you didn’t stay. Nobody did and I never blamed them. I was too busy wondering about people who believed in numbers and the healing power of yoga on 3 a.m mornings and tying their shoes without kneeling down to notice when they left. I am stuck inside of a world that I don’t quite understand, with people I never seem to connect with.
FIRST DATE CONVERSATION (K.P.K)
"Now you’re the only perfect picture of hope between my endless prayers."
I hope you fall in love
With someone who always texts back and never lets
You fall asleep thinking you’re
I hope you fall in love with someone
Who holds your hand during the scary parts of
Horror movies and burns
Cookies with you when you’re
Too busy dancing around the
I hope you fall in love with
Someone who sees galaxies in your eyes
And hears music in your
I hope you fall in love with someone who
Tickles you and makes you smile
On hard days and on easy
But beyond all that I hope
You fall in love with someone
Who will never leave you behind
And who will never take you
For granted, someone who
Will stand by you when you’re
Right and stand by you
When you’re wrong,
Someone who has seen you at your worst
And has loved you
I hope you fall in love
With someone who
Kisses you in the rain
And hugs you in the cold and
Wouldn’t have you any other
Wouldn’t It Be Wonderful, l.h.k.
© 2014 by l.h.k.(via ive-been-john-watsoned)
It’s taken me months to realize
that you are not beautiful
in the stereotypical way.
Although your appearance
radiates your charm
and your smile
could light up a room,
that’s not what makes you beautiful.
It took me until now
to realize it’s your words.
It’s the way you pronounce them,
the way you can concoct
by stringing a few together,
it’s the way
roll off your tongue
whenever you’re passionate about something,
or the little fumbles you have
when you’re trying to find words
to describe how you’re feeling.
That, my lovely,
that is what makes you
so beautiful to me,
and I wish I figured it out
before I lost you.