ohfaith-justfiction

I thought of when I cut your hair I lost the clippings in your shirt and on your neck They drifted down and mingled with hair cuts from the biblical era With the likes of Moses’ hair and Abraham and Isaac’s We kissed four times last night and you traced racing tracks into my wrist Winding and loose and completely euphoric I could hear the thrumming in your chest and feel it in your fingertips in the way I felt your breath on my cheeks We are now solid and real and tangible and our skin is melting into each other and our hair tangling and knotting together We breathe the same toxins of piss and cigarette smoke and perfume and we

I pressed the kiss to the corner of your mouth I couldn't feel your beard like I thought I would, but I felt the apple of your cheek I wish I had more beautiful words to describe it, but it wasn't beautiful It was awkward and fumbling and I almost knocked your glasses off Both of our lips were dry, even though I had already said that I'd found my Chapstick But I can't believe I had expected to get anything but laughter (the laughter was from me) because I felt silly when I asked if I could have the eternal delight of pressing my cracking lips against yours I told you I would do better next time (effectively taking fate into my own ha

I want to tell you exactly how I feel I made a mistake, and this is my fault I wanted instant gratification, I should have waited I want to tell you how stupid I feel Because it has always been you And how does it feel to still be what makes me write When you were in my bed last night, so far away I felt sick and wanted you pressed against me And now you're leaving and I feel grossly lonely and Please don't go I don't want you to please don't I don't want anything clean and finite I want your hands on mine and I feel So sick and you left your jacket on my kitchen table and your shorts are still on my bedroom floor but not in a

The way you smell matters to me sometimes someone will walk past me and they will smell like you and I can only think of the way your hands felt on mine and the tangling of our legs and those times I rested my head on your thighs and when we laid on my bed and talked and didn't hear the doorbell ring a thousand times and my arm completely around your waist and every time we've fallen asleep on each other's shoulders and when you took my phone and we rolled off my bed and I laid on top of you for however long and when you sat on me to prove a point I think of all of these things and how we were never together and how I'm going to miss the

I can feel you in the pit of my stomach and when you're gone, I will cry

I miss so desperately the feel of you pressed heavy against me, the weight of you sinking the coiled springs in my lonely mattress I want to throw up, I miss you so much I constantly relive the feeling of my lips against the cold shell of your ear and your fingers wrapped softly around mine, that had long been frozen and forgotten and you were so not yourself The tequila made me warm, but when the dizziness faded you made me warmer. The truths you told replay constantly in words that marquis across my eyelids in fantastical textography and microsoft word art I've forgotten the lessons taught to my tongue and finger tips I feel sick from

John takes a moment to breathe. He has to do this every so often. Stop and think about breathing. He has to do this because. Well. Because his best friend is dead. Jumped from the roof of a building, falling, falling, fell. Hit the ground, split his head open, cracked his neck. Dead. The way he fell, like he was reaching for something, trying to save himself, regretting the decision that he'd made. John feels sick. And why can't he just stop. Why does he have to keep going like this? To keep thinking about him day and night, months at a time. More importantly why won't he—why won't Sherlock stop this? Why can't he just get back into h

I miss the way things used to be the way you pressed so close to me and the way we used to breathe I wish you'd just come back to me they say, "if you love it, set it free," but I loved you better in my bed with your chest against my head and the mornings that I dread when you rose, and when you left I dream of all the words I left hanging in the place we went with your legs against my legs, the sick and sweet things that we said I've hoped for months now that you'd say that your mind had finally changed you haven't yet, but that's okay; I can dream and count the days since I was pressed against your face and my arm around y

I've been dreaming for days about cutting my summer hair taking a blade to the locks cutting and chopping and searching for change underneath all of the curls that twist and wrap and move into themselves and out of my skull I have pictured the way my friends will react when they see that all my cover and shade has gone I have dreamed of the face that my sometimes lover will make when he sees the bangs that barely reach my eyebrows that shape my face so differently The taste of change has been sitting sweet on the tip of my tongue inching itself up from the back of my throat up to the backs of my teeth until it would spi

If you're done with me, be done. Don't let other devils cut me with their tongues. I am no drug addict. I am the villain here, or am I the wronged? No one feels sorry for me I will continue to be the one at blame for this conflict. Everything is my fault. I'm sorry that I voice my worries. I'm sorry that I spent too much time making sure that you were okay. I'm sorry that I spent that time, because evidently it didn't mean shit. Tell her I cried. Tell her she wins. Tell her I'm so beyond the point of caring that if she really wants you, she can have you, Because seven years doesn't mean a fucking thing. No one feels sorry for me