You write shitty poetry that
makes me feel nothing, but maybe
that’s just because none of it
is about me.

That’s all I wanted to say.
Sorry. You don’t deserve this,
but I want to be spiteful and
you’re my favorite person
to bring back from the dead.

So now that you’re here,
I’ll take my mouth and bury it
next to yours, pretend that
there wasn’t already
dirt in my teeth from the
last time I did this.

I don’t know what lonely is,
but it tastes like you.
Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and how I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be. And when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
Andrea Gibson  (via stolenwine)

The best of us
will not be left
in the beginning.

I do not belong
to anyone, but when
he is holding me to
his chest, I feel that
I may belong.

I am crushing my
heart into breath
against his skin.

I think I belong
to certain moments,
in the fractions of
hope between the
promises and “I
love you”s we never
got to hear.

i say ‘this feels good’ and i mean so much more than just the touching, Emma Bleker (via stolenwine)