9 posts tagged “love's lost cause”
.. when I do have downtime, I will always try to create whenever, whatever I can.
"there are plenty of fish in the sea but there's only one fishie for me."
I don't remember the last time I felt this way, but it's a feeling that can't be forgotten.
he's in it for the chase
of the matter
--not because i matter
he's in it for the smile
i cause to creep upon his face
onto his light pink lips
i've always had this urge to kiss, kiss
and he's in it for the glow
in knowing i can't get enough of him
through the blush i still attempt to hide in
(because i have the hardest time hiding it)
but deep down inside,
we both know--he'll never give in
or succumb to what i could give him
because his eyes, they don't rely
on just how lovely this prize is
but on what a thrill it is
of somehow, someway,
getting his way
through my door
... and nothing else,
nothing more.
--
found this poem in another journal of mine -- i wrote it back in january, but reading it all over again brings those feelings back to mind, or should i say heart?
My idea didn't translate too well into illustration, but I tried.
Maybe I'll attempt something different tomorrow.
Unfortunately, this would also make me a fatty. =P But it would be sure as hell hard to resist!
if we are anything at all,
we are drinks and more drinks
and sweet, sweet drunkeness
by means of your whiskey, jack and coke
and my fancy cocktails in fancy shiny glasses
touching the center of our mouths,
we are touching, touching
of the most discreet kind
underneath tables, bars and slip-on dresses
(making us what people might think
unbelievable dysfunctional messes)
we are shadowy figures of the night
in fifty dollar darkened cabs
underlying with full intentions
of engaging in backseat trysts
with what could only be our wandering lips
that keep accidentally meeting
with open mouth kisses
while your hand, somehow, keeps slipping
because i let it
only to leave me wanting more
and outside of all of that
we are a push and pull
and a further push push away
from what we might really want
to happen between us
and we are these misinterpreted words
and a lack of communication
and incredibly high walls
with no interest in climbing them at all
but yet we still can't help but
flirt with the idea
of you and me
or you in me
and you, buying me, my next drink.
her body felt immobile afterwards,
as it always had
after an hour of skin on skin collision
discarded clothes scattered on the floor
him not wanting to stop
him only wanting more
with her in his possession,
he was yet again emergent
eager, urgent to pursue
but she, she was a bit phobic
of what the situation would turn into..
one minute they were simply being chatty
and the next they were inside sweaty sheets
with their lower bodies meeting
second after second on repeat
it was a sensation she didn't want to leave
but she wasn't sure she could handle
and in the matters of body over heart
she couldn't help but agree
with the moment and the movement
and the height of their activity
she passionately screamed yes, yes, YES..
as their tangled limbs collapsed
exhausted, defeated, she gave herself in
it wasn't worth the thought involved
it was only worth the feeling
and if this one moment satisfied that
then maybe, maybe this was all she really needed
Yes, I'm still reading this.. obviously not on a consistent basis, but I remembered awhile ago when I decided to start from the beginning again, I came across this one paragraph within the first ten pages of the book and fell in love with the way it was written because I felt like it really captured young love. I just thought I'd share.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn't talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast. Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived. What if I die? she asked. Even then, he said. For her sixteenth birthday he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. What's this? he'd ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle, and she'd look it up. And this? he'd ask, kissing her elbow. Elbow! What kind of word is that? and then he'd lick it, making her giggle. What about this? he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. I don't know, she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed. Later--when things happened that they could never have imagined--she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?
