Maps Not Meant for FollowingI bet you missed me when I went away. “You’ll come back,” you thought. When I didn’t you bit your lip, but was sure I would make it with time. After the next day, and the day after that, the doubts started to creep in. You caught yourself sucking in a painful breath whenever you saw something of mine lying around. Bits of my life left with you would slither into your sight when you least expected it the same way the memories would swamp you if given the slightest chance.Maps Not Meant for Following by TheTerrorOfTheDeep
When days turned into a week, you entered into a hush drunk state: eyes bleary and sore from holding back any semblance of emotion. You were quiet, but not calm. Your hands became tumultuous storms when you'd glance over at our picture, fingers becoming tidal waves as you would toss it onto the bed. You were tired, but not nearly tired enough to forget.
On its own, you would find your body shaking at the brush of your own fingers across your skin, a reminder of where I touched you last. An
Levee LandThe thing about living in Louisiana is that you no longer see beauty in the cypress, the slow muck of water, the brilliant blue of the sky. You see that the trees are new growth and skinny, tall and ready to topple. You see the refrigerators abandoned on the banks and you know that the only reason the sky is so blue is because of all the vapor in the atmosphere and you curse the humidity.
A Little Bit RuinedIt’s long past midnight by the time I make it back to my apartment. The nearby streetlight burned out long ago, and I attempt to open the door with my car key several times before realizing my mistake. I’m not sure how I make that mistake, actually—I have three keys on my key ring, one for the’92 sun faded blue Corrolla, one for the Post Office box that I never check, and one for my apartment. I’ve always envied people who have heavy key rings, the way the metal clicks together in their pockets and jangles when they pulled them out. Having that many keys, I figure, means that you had important things to do, important places to go, places where you would always be safe.
this is about forgettingThis is the thing about forgetting:
Words I Wish ExistedIn French, they don't say "I miss you." They say, tu me manques, which translates roughly to "you are missing from me." That seems right. This seems far more true. Because missing something is far different than having something missing from you. When something is missing from you it means that it is a part of you that makes you tick. I've always had trouble with the English language, there are so many words that should exist. There should be a word for when you love someone but you hate them at the same time, when you can't get them out of your system and so you suffer constantly through small talk because if their words are all you can have, you will take them. Maybe something in German, the German language sounds like suffering. There should be a word for when you think about someone constantly because you are trying so hard not to think of them, because the active desire to unthink someone makes you think of them more.
for all intensive purposesi am accused of being
LW: (title page - epigraph)"Camus said that the only true function of man, born into an absurd world, is to live, be aware of one's life, one's revolt, one's freedom. He said that if the only solution to the human dilemma is death, then we are on the wrong road. The right track is the one that leads to life, to sunlight. One cannot unceasingly suffer from the cold. […] The track he followed led into the sunlight in being that one devoted to making with our frail powers and our absurd material, something which had not existed in life until we made it."- William Faulkner
The Library“This has always been my favorite room.” Greyson's heavy boots echoed as he circled around the room. Aside from his footfalls, the rest of the extravagant home was silent. He gingerly hooked his finger into the bindings on the old books that were so carefully placed on the ancient bookcases, caressing the spine on each one. “Even as a young child, I loved this room. Uncle Damascus would tell Lydia and I the most adventurous stories in here. Father told us not to listen to his tall tales and that Damascus wasn't his real name, but it's the only one we ever had for him. I'm not even sure how he got the nickname.”
Breakup SpeechIt's not you, it's me. I know it's the oldest excuse in the book, but hey, when it works, it works. Did you really see this lasting longer than a couple months? When does anything last longer than a couple months with me? I hope we can still be friends.
Bee's Pre-SmutHis hand warmed her skin as he gently stroked the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. Her body tingled when his fingers danced across the material of her panties. She wiggled her bottom to reveal a bit more flesh. She watched his eyes flash down at her movement. The smirk was all the approval she needed.
Behind Blue EyesShe lay on her bed, unable to even get out of it and walk around her own home. Having had visitors most of the day, she was grateful for the peace and quiet her empty room gave her.
edgea bundle of nerves and feelings
You're Beautiful, But I'll Make BreakfastAlice swayed her body to the side and slithered off Paddy, pulling the sheet along with her. He watched her head fall back onto the pillow next to him. Her twisted brown hair covering her face slightly. Rolling onto his side, Paddy's hand swept the hair from her face. He let the backs of his fingers brush against her cheek while his other hand gripped her waist and yanked her body closer to his own. “You're beautiful.” His voice was barely a whisper with just a hint of an Irish accent. Everyone in his family had it. They teased that it was the only thing they had left from the old country.