(Source: , via palandri)
Willa Holland, I will eat you alive. Jesus Christ.
And there it is; there you were. In one second, you fled in and out of my life, vanishing like a shooting star.
I never got a chance to hold you, hold your scars the way I wanted to, I never got the chance to whisper my love quietly into the curl of your mouth - you never got the chance to feel it, to feel us.
Now you’re gone, you were momentarily perfect.
And now? Well darling, now you’re just a dizzy memory, a blurred photograph, of a love that never grew - and I’m cursed with one million hours left to think of you, endless minutes spent thinking of that.
You would have made a beautiful piece of furniture in my perfectly awkward life, could have made a lovely wife.
Why does everyone have to have, oh, more than one face?
This is mine.
Is it only I?
Only I whose rib cages burn wildly with an unknown desire, as if my lungs are filled with methane and any ordinary or rational thought may cause them to combust?
Some days, most days, I awake only to find myself lost in conversation with the oceans and the stars, for surely they understand this burning feeling in my stomach that just boils and boils. I awake to find the rest of the world still asleep - On cruise control.
Why don’t they burn like I burn?
Why aren’t their fingers alight with a curiosity so large that the simple idea of living becomes such an absurd notion that they call in sick to work.
Because they know that these bed sheets will show them more warmth than the tram driver.
I wonder if their muscles stiffen at the thought of one single life long love; at the thought of routine and predictability like mine do. If they know like I do that one person will never satisfy a lifetime here.
I wonder if they feel as though they have five different people inside them, all with their individual hopes and dreams, and that they would need days as long as years to fulfill every single desire within their blood.
As though just one of them alone, is merely enough to fulfill anything but their agitated bellies.
Or if they feel small like I do when they look at the moon and see that in all its immensity, all its enormity, that it has lived through many lifetimes with its one soul purpose of chasing it’s love; chasing it for eternity until the universe implodes on itself.
And I wonder if it’s happy; if it’s satisfied to know that this is all its existence will ever amount to. And it’s that wondering, that question that makes me feel small.
For our moon is so vast in comparison to you and I.
And at the finale, the end of all this wondering, I can’t do anything but collapse into a tired heap toward the bottom of my bed, answer-less and alone.
Wondering where the burning ones are, the wild haired women and children. Wandering with their pages filled with questions about everything and nothing, but alive and burning nonetheless.
Or is it only me?
How poachers still exist is beyond me. Devastating.