my mom says she’s not a hugger. but when i put my arms around her on a gloomy day or after bad news she’s the last to let go.
my dad says he doesn’t want gifts on his birthday, but i see the way his face light up when i get him a card with a nice message and a box full of chocolate anyway. he’s just a kid inside, still. it makes him giddy.
my brother never says i love you. but when i tell him “i just need to finish the dishes before i vacuum!” he wordlessly goes to vacuum the entire house before i can, and if he sees me struggle with a wrapper or a jar or a bottle he mutters ‘c’mere’ and opens it for me without even sparing me a glance.
the thing is, people love you quietly, and you love them quietly, and the air is buzzing with tiny but grand gestures & once you look for them, you find them everywhere. i think that’s really beautiful.
(via litostris)
139,844 notes
He once said he was worried I smoke too many cigarettes
and what he probably meant was I am bad with moderation.
I have been thinking about fists, how we learn to open them,
how hair grows back and clogs the shower drain. I am thinking
about bodies. I am thinking about how the most beautiful things
are sometimes the most fragile, and even the strongest woman
I know has felt her heart crack like porcelain. My mother
taught me not to fall in love but to walk into it, take my time
with cheek kisses and uncomfortable silences, but collapsing
never felt as good as it did on his couch with the television
on softly in the background. I want to call him and scream
that we were special but I know even the scariest honesty
won’t bring him back. I think about coffee and sad songs
and sore throats. I think that in five years I will still read
his horoscope out of habit, still cringe at the names of the girls
he’s loved in the past. He once said he was worried I smoke
too often. It has been one week since I told him I needed him
and he suggested I buy a pack of cigarettes, almost like he knew
he was the harder habit to quit. He was right.HABITS, Lydia Wang (via poemsbylydia)
and what he probably meant was I am bad with moderation.
I have been thinking about fists, how we learn to open them,
how hair grows back and clogs the shower drain. I am thinking
about bodies. I am thinking about how the most beautiful things
are sometimes the most fragile, and even the strongest woman
I know has felt her heart crack like porcelain. My mother
taught me not to fall in love but to walk into it, take my time
with cheek kisses and uncomfortable silences, but collapsing
never felt as good as it did on his couch with the television
on softly in the background. I want to call him and scream
that we were special but I know even the scariest honesty
won’t bring him back. I think about coffee and sad songs
and sore throats. I think that in five years I will still read
his horoscope out of habit, still cringe at the names of the girls
he’s loved in the past. He once said he was worried I smoke
too often. It has been one week since I told him I needed him
and he suggested I buy a pack of cigarettes, almost like he knew
he was the harder habit to quit. He was right.HABITS, Lydia Wang (via poemsbylydia)
(via butterbaby96)
442 notes
Be careful who you make memories with. Those things can last a lifetime.
life (via frequents)
(via mydemisee)
121,273 notes