Je t’ai dis que t’étais toute ma vie mais mec, la vie est une pute.
Ernest Hemingway (via theonlymagicleftisart)
So much of you!
These are the same sheets that touched your skin, that night I touched your forehead, and in the morning I watched you sleep, like a fucking creep. But it’s not you I call anymore when I say you, it’s not your name that I regret letting slip into my mind just before I fall asleep, and maybe that’s why these sheets are a darker purple. Violet with rage, and courser with the pieces you left after you broke me. But who am I talking to now, if not just myself. Almost a me that I can pretend to believe in. And tonight, I hate that I am addressing anyone with a you that I will always understand. Letting these words keep me company, wrap me up in the most comforting thing I’ve never had, a dream that lasted beyond childish heart sickness, the physicality of which still gets me in my chest. It’s too much to forgive, and not enough to forget. It’s a cliché that I will always miss.