You have this kind of pull, like gravity.
I’m so lucky that I fell into your orbit.
“You roll your mouth off him, his taste still smothering your tongue when he says, “There is someone else.”
You laugh. The last time you saw him was a year before when he forced you out of his car somewhere in Queens because you hit him in the arm. He came back ten minutes later, drove you to your dorm at NYU, and you didn’t talk for almost a year when he sent you an email saying he missed you. You thought you loved him, so you invited him to your mom’s house in the Hamptons. He said yes, so you thought that maybe he loved you, too.
You look at the clock next to your bed. It is midnight - officially your birthday.
“Her name is Jackie,” he continues.
You laugh again. Your bed creaks; through the wall, you can hear your mother snoring.
“I really like her,” he says. “I mean I like you, but it’s, it’s just different.”
This is when you ask the question you shouldn’t. “What do you mean different?”
“You know that pumpkin cheesecake we had tonight?”
You nod. Every October, every birthday, your mother’s boyfriend makes you one. It is your favourite.
“You are like pumpkin cheesecake,” Matt says. He leans on his elbow and you try not to look into his eyes. “And Jackie is carrots. You’re great, but not all the time. Jackie is good for me all the time. You know?”
This is the thing you learn about yourself in the first few minutes of being nineteen: you are much more of an adult than last year, because when Matt says this, you don’t reach your hand out to punch him in the face. Instead, you say, “I understand.” Then you roll away from him and close your eyes until you hear his tiny snores rolling through your ribs.
You are mature because you wait. You tip toe to the bathroom and lay your face against the cold tiles and that is where you cry.
You realize that you do not know what love means. However, it is here on your nineteenth birthday you realize what it isn’t. It isn’t having your heart broken on your own bed after giving someone a blowjob on your birthday. It isn’t any of this.
You wonder though why love feels like laying down and letting someone roll over you - why love feels like agreeing to lay down and die.”
— Kristen Fiore, “Wrong Ways To Say I Am Not In Love With You” Chapter Three (via framesjanco)
I expected to want
you for all the reasons
I have wanted before,
the ones with names
I don’t remember and
phone numbers I
never wanted to ask for.
You climbed inside of
me some night while
I was sleeping, you
I feel the weight of
another body settling
somewhere in this
skin, making itself
comfortable, as if
to claim a corner of
me otherwise left
thoughts from the unexpected, Emma Bleker (via stolenwine)
"I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side."
"Someone once told me a story about long term relationships. To think of them as a continent to explore. I could spend a lifetime backpacking through Africa, and I would still never know all there is to know about that continent. To stay the course, to stay intentional, to stay curious and connected – that’s the heart of it. But it’s so easy to lose track of the trail, to get tired, to want to give up, or to want a new adventure. It can be so easy to lose sight of the goodness and mystery within the person sitting right in front of you."
Joy Williams (via jordiecashier)