I Think I Might Always Be In Some Kind Of Love With You.

“The right one for you will move mountains to be with you—he won’t hide behind them.”

— Mandy Hale, The Single Woman

“The past doesn’t need you anymore. Your future does.”

— Unknown (via resqectable)

“I have lost and loved and won and cried myself to the person I am today.”

— Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads & Broken Bottles

my muse has been missing for three days, and has just escaped/been found/etc. send "Hello?" for what my muse says in their first phonecall to yours, when they finally get access to a phone.

“You made flowers grow in my lungs and although they are beautiful, I can’t breathe.”

— Unknown

i.

the end of the day like the last stop of a train, the sun too  is on its way out of sight,

past the horizon with its  dusk and all the stars.

ii.

tomorrow is a window onto hope, growing like a flower in soil gently tilled,

like the way you are gentle flow  and ebb, between here and now, there and soon… and in between 

the pages tucked, feather light  the mark you booked — through all the cracks, 

the shimmering edge of everything  disappearing into this… a halo  of softness, what is an angel anyway 

but a disguise… for all the places  you didn’t look, some being  holds the torch quietly… when you don’t. 

“I am what you designed me to be. I am your blade. You cannot now complain if you also feel the hurt.”

— Charles Dickens, Great Expectations 

The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.

Mother Teresa

It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.

Paulo Coelho

the poetry of brown eyes

There needs to be more poetic descriptions of brown eyes in literature, so I wrote some.

It was as if the stars had lent their light to his eyes, etching their constellations into the rich black-brown and painting a sky of their own inside them.

Their eyes held the hue of tea-stained lace, soft and delicate and rich, a wash of gentle brown against the harsh dark shadows of the world.

Her eyes held the nostalgia of summer memories. It was the way they turned into the warmest brown under the sun, like the richest, darkest honey; the way tendrils of amber like the juice of a nectarine streaked their way through, wreathing the pupil in a symphony of golds.

Her eyes were bright and dancing, like the curious ruffled feathers of a sparrow — and as flighty as one, too, darting quickly and nervously away, her gaze fluttering across different spots of the room erratically.

His gaze locked on him, intense and searching. The black, shadowy depths of his eyes shrouded him, leaving him desperately scrabbling for an escape from the dark pull of his stare.

Their eyes had a distinct sense of antiquity to them, the precise hue of a worn, leather-bound book and the faded mahogany of a desk from a time long lost.

If you use or are inspired by these while writing, I'd love it if you tagged me so I can gush over your amazing work :)