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Ingénue

@xtrdnry

Anne
18
"don't you dare let our best memories bring you sorrow"
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adorability

I love when you become so close with someone that you can see parts of each other in one another and you begin to say the same things and steal lines from one another and have a similar sense of humor and can exchange an inside joke with just a glance you don’t even have to talk because you have such a strong connection with them and you can sit in comfortable silence but also talk for hours it’s really hard to find that kind of compatibility

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Hide your little dreams, the ones that mean something. Hide them in the gaps of your memory, hide them in those rose-tinted days you always miss. Hide them in those thoughts you’d never tell. Hide them in people with kind eyes and open hearts. Hide them in the color of your first love’s eyes and the sound of your best friend’s laugh. Hide them behind your lips, in your throat, where you always want to speak them but never can. Hide them away from a world that would rip them away if you let it.

Journal Entry; Summer 2015 (via thoughts-into-ink)

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You aren’t real anymore, that’s what unsettles me most. You’re merely freeze framed pictures and granular movies; heavenly smells, hidden deep within my olfactory system; tantalizing touches safeguarded by my skin cells. All locked and fused within my memory; so deeply imprinted in the fabric of my spirit that I have but to think of you to have you here near me.     But you aren’t real anymore, and that’s what unsettles me. You’re just the ghost of the girl I loved, occupying the space in my lungs. Often hindering the functionality of my respiratory system when the light you left behind my diaphragm turns to twirling shades. Then I get mournful, stomach filled to the brim with the poison of penitence and remorse to the point of nausea. My body shuddering and small; staggering through the mist filled room trying to reach and open a window. But all the windows remain shut, and I am stuck breathing in the fine ashes of your burnt effigy against my will. Against my will, for I know you aren’t real anymore.     You’re just the remnants of the girl who left. Now consisting of nothing more than dreamed up fabric, stitched together with the thread of a woolen blanket unraveled. Leaving me cold and vulnerable when the night chases me and my heart beats my weary mind into submission. Sleep paralysis; I see your face before me and I cannot escape your sprightly smile and longing gaze. I am bound to my bed as you haunt my retina mercilessly. Eyes closed or open, I am trapped in you. Yet I cannot fear you, I can only love you and that is what unsettles me. Despite all my struggles I can only love this phantom version of you.     Because we both know you aren’t real anymore. The girl I see, the girl I loved; the girl who left me, has changed into a woman unknown to me. Most likely, you and she have as little to do with each other as could be. The girl I loved is forever lost. This thought should soothe and encourage me through its urging message to forget and move one. Yet there is this hope; this clinging onto that girl you were, blessing the world with your incandescence.     Never change, I once told you, with a fiery hope beaming from my core. Stay true to you. Stay real. You are beautiful!– Maybe you were. To me, you were. Perhaps this is what’s unsettling me. “You aren’t real anymore”, is just what I tell myself to sleep. The real you being lost to this world gives me nightmares beyond belief.

You are everlasting love (excerpt), by M.A. Tempels © 2017 (via definegodliness)

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“Some things are better left unsaid, you know?” “Like what?” He asked, without slowing down his pace. I watched as his back getting far away. “Like goodbye..” Like I love you.

Excerpt from the book I’ll never write #45 (via hereliesmybrokenheart)

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Some people take your breath away from the very start. Loud and wild and incredibly alive. Sometimes you fall hard with on the spot, and it lasts, but here’s the thing about love: mostly it grows. Mostly it’s seeing her in class and wondering what she's thinking. Watching her write her name at the top of her paper in loopy cursive. When you ask her out for the first time, your palms are sweaty. God, you think. Get a grip. But then she says yes, and you stop thinking altogether.      And it’s quiet, this love. Shimming it’s way into your life. You learn that she’s funny. She likes bad reality TV and drinks coffee by the gallon. When you compliment her, she tucks her chin in embarrassment. She’s kind to people. Generous. And here’s the other thing about love: mostly you don’t see it coming.      One day in the middle of winter she takes your hand and presses close and says, “You’re so warm. God. I wish I could wear you like a sweater.” And that’s it. The shy girl in English with big eyes. Loopy cursive. This girl. This is it, you think. This is what it’s all about. You tell her that you love her one day, many months later, and maybe she says it back. Maybe she smiles wide with all of her teeth and says, “it took you long enough. ” Maybe you marry her or maybe she starts asking for space. Maybe it’s too much, this love. Or maybe you break her heart and she never forgives you. Maybe love just isn’t enough. Maybe all of this. None of it. Something else entirely. I mean, that’s the thing about love: mostly it doesn’t make any sense at all.

thoughts on loving and being and living (via yourhandwrittenletter)

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Once upon a time, there was a girl with stars. And yes, we often talk about lovers who placed stars into our veins, but this girl? She was made from them. She didn’t need someone to put it inside of her, she had it. A smile so pure, you wanted to be her friend. If you met her once, you would’ve known, there are angels on this earth. Some without halos, some without wings– Icarus’s memoir. She was a reminder that even humans can get dipped in gold, she was a reminder that even humans could be like daylight. And then enters, some guy. A stranger, unbeknownst to him– they’d fall in love. It starts with a hello, how are you? Some days he still wonders if it’s real, some days her absence feels fake. Some days, the coffee just makes him bend. Some days, the moon just makes him cry, she loved midnight walks, especially if his arms meant home. Some stories don’t have a prequel or a sequel– in this love story, they only needed each other in that moment, forever and ever. There is no the end. In this poem. There is no ending. They live in the mouth of this wordsmith. They live in my inkwell. They live in my forever. Sickness doesn’t take her away and he never reads the letter that goes “It’s not your fault, and i’m sorry for not telling you how hard i was trying to stay alive for you.” In this world, they fall in love forever because once you’re inside of poetry, once you’re embedded into a writer’s mind, in an alternate universe; you guys never had to bury her, you never had to mourn her, you never had to leave her, she kissed you goodnight every fucking night. And you know, there’s something beautiful about literature, I know you didn’t ask for this, but it’s happening. In this once upon a time, it was forever. In this once upon a time, you got lost in those twinkling eyes forever and she just smiles with that loose strand of hair over her lips, and you? You’re just glad to hold her whenever she needed comfort. And the wind will always blow her hair just right, it’s almost like a scene from every damn Hollywood movie, he falls for her and she catches him. They never fall out of love, because in this scene? You two are my cliffhangers. You two are my superstars. You two are my new favorite definition of always and forever.

You two (via everylittlepieceofyou)

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I firmly believe in small gestures: pay for their coffee, hold the door for strangers, over tip, smile or try to be kind even when you don’t feel like it, pay compliments, chase the kid’s runaway ball down the sidewalk and throw it back to him, try to be larger than you are— particularly when it’s difficult. People do notice, people appreciate. I appreciate it when it’s done to (for) me. Small gestures can be an effort, or actually go against our grain (I’m not a big one for paying compliments…), but the irony is that almost every time you make them, you feel better about yourself. For a moment life suddenly feels lighter….
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7am-light

So this came up on my tl and I almost died thx jomny (x)

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wnq-writers
And here I am again… Scrawling your name in the steam on the mirror because every time I see that raw version of myself, distorted through layers of water and mist, all I see are the parts of myself that you created and the parts of myself that can’t live without you. You hid my flaws from me just like the steam on the mirror does. But you disappeared as quickly and quietly as the mist in which your name is written in cursive, and left me shivering in the cold air, barefooted and broken-hearted, after being drenched in the warmth of your love.

noddingpeonies, at least I’ll soon wash my hands of you (via wnq-writers)

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