Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
the little things
- nice soap
- discovering a really good band
- waking up with a few hours left of sleep
- candles with wax dripping down the sides
- finding undamaged shells on the beach
- hand written letters
- your grandmother’s glass cabinets filled with odd collections
- old photos
- flirting with someone you…
if you were mine
if you were mine, i’d bake you cupcakes and make you lick off the icing before you do anything else. i’d go on walks with you around our neighbourhood, early in the morning, late at night. i’d kiss your ankles and tickle your arm until you fall asleep, no matter how tired i was myself. i’d pinky…
