Blue Spring Ride (アオハライド, Ao Haru Ride)


Isn’t it amazing how life is one thing, and then, in an instant, it becomes something else? Like, here I am, the girl who thinks with the cello. And Adam. And Julliard. And just like that. That could never exist again…

'If I Stay' #2 trailer (x)

I think we agreed to each other that right now, we’re going to be open. We’re letting each other in.
— You Let Me In
I learned to love the entire world when I discovered it had you in it.
— (via arcticity)


I wish I got to choose on how this story ends. I wish there were peaceful goodbyes and forgiveness instead of the lethal silence and hurtful words. I wish we were able to write the last page well instead of just leaving it be because we don’t know what to write anymore. After everything that we have gone through, I think we should have ended things smoothly and I wish we had the courage to say the things that needed to be said instead of stretching the silence between us until we both realize that we don’t matter anymore.

It was misleading. Your shrug
and soft voice and the way
you were always there when I
turned around. I know kindness
doesn’t always mean interest
but our conversations always
sounded like an invitation and
then you introduced me to her.
— anne, I thought you wanted me  (via poignantic)
Missing you comes in waves; tonight I’m drowning.
Hannah Taylor, “Waves” (via buhaybabae)

this week on “is this a song lyric or is michael being sensitive”


this week on “is this a song lyric or is michael being sensitive”

You will no longer text me
sweet nothings when I needed affection,
you will no longer feed me with
love that will make me stronger,
you will no longer sing for me
because your voice is my lullaby on repeat.

At first, all I could think about
was how you will no longer do
any of this ever again
because you’re gone and
never coming back.

But then I realized that there is
so much more that we will miss out
and that’s all I ever think about.

I think about the vows we’ll never write,
the rings we’ll never exchange
and the anniversaries we’ll never celebrate.
I think about the honeymoon we’ll never take
and the love we’ll never consummate.
I think about the plans we’ll never do,
the house we’ll never have,
and the furniture we’ll never buy.
I think about the children we’ll never have,
the stories we’ll never share
and the years we’ll never grow old together.

What really hurts most of all to think about
is how one day I may find someone
that will do all of these things with me,
but he’ll never be you.

"These Are Things That Keeps Me Awake At Night", s.a  (via abbbywaitingforyou)

You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.

In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach.
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner and you say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.

In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights and olive oil,
not everything you have every loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
laying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.

At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like wet paint?

You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like you are always
ticking inside of me
and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.

Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.

Sierra DeMulder, Unrequited Love Poem (via sierrademulder)