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I want to come home to you and taste the waiting on your lips. I want the roses in my hand to fall on the floor because of the impact of your embrace. I want my nails etched into the trench of your back as you bury your head into my collarbone, while your lips unintentionally press against my neck. I want to feel the beating of your heart as it brings me to my knees. I want to taste the desire seeping through your skin and hear the distress exhaled of your lungs. I want your sigh of relief and I want you endlessly.
I want every inch of you as you’ve already taken me.
Connotativewords | jl | You and Me  (via connotativewords)

The first time your heart breaks, it doesn’t simply tear.
It shatters.
Fragments of blood-streaked glass stain your bedroom walls;
bitter tears, drenched in despair and confusion and piercing sadness
line your bottom eyelids, tinge your cheeks a painful fusion of red and regret;
your hands shake and your knees wobble as you try to step forward, try to leave before you are left, before you are consumed, before you begin to think of crawling back.

Your first thought is that you are to blame:
that you were too invested – and he not at all,
that you should have known he didn’t want anything serious,
that he wanted your body and not you,
that he never wanted you.

But he left you, and that is his loss.
He does not know how it feels to be alone on cold nights, infrequent strikes of lightning and passion illuminating his windows, his thoughts.
The grief seeps between his fingers, overflows his veins, reminds him that the consequences of a forgotten love are very rarely one-sided.

The first time your heart breaks, it doesn’t simply tear.
It shatters.
But here I am, as I always promised to be,
sweeping up each broken, glimmering piece of crystal,
bandaging the wounds he has left on your wrists,
kissing your cheeks and rubbing your back,
reminding you to breathe,
slowly, deeply, quietly.

I know it hurts.
I know that your stomach is crumbling inside of you,
a city set alight and left to burn;
and your head is swaying from left to right,
drunk on the love you have wasted,
intoxicated by the smell of his neck as he turns away.

But someday, a day far ahead of this one,
the world will become bright again.
You will wake up and smile,
and you will be happy without him.

L.G. The First Time Is Always The Hardest (via introv-erted)
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