First best is falling in love. Second best is being in love. Least best is falling out of love. But any of it is better than never having been in love.
It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there.
I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don’t belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn’t happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.
american horror story: my college roommate hates one direction
You won’t do our things with another girl, or say the same things, will you?