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‘If I were to end you a letter, this would be it’

I guess this could be both a goodbye and a hello
a soft goodbye because I know this letter marks the last time you will ever think of me
And a hard hello because you cannot simply fathom the amount of missing you that has taken place
In this hollow heart of mine.

Because every night I discover you in a new and brilliant way
Your name is painted in a delicate red under the tight seams of the wallpaper I put up after you left.
The ripped up poetry pages you kept are still in my trash can since it has not yet been a full week
Since I destroyed every physical memory of you.
The roses you bought me which were intended to help stifle the pain of our breakup
only renew it in the most hateful way possible.

Obviously I still think of you though
You are the chemical ingredients which make me feel miserable
You are the cracks in my bones which grow with every passing hour
You are the hour, the minute and the second hand
Always chipping away at the few hours of sanity I have left.
And you are the rose petals in my tea
Marking the death of another far off love that couldn’t have been quite as extraordinary as ours.

Yet I find myself thinking
If I could just let go of all of these things then maybe
Just maybe, I can let go of you too.

So I have decided to leave
to leave this apartment which is only a graveyard of short-lived memories
And to move to another country
And maybe then I will finally be happy.
I will write more and read more, paint and take more photographs, and hopefully fall in love, one last time.

But if that makes you sad just know this;
I will still find you in some way, whether it be the touch of the cold rain or silent kiss of soft snow
or even the whisp of sheets which surround me as I sleep
And it will be these moments, these soft goodbyes and hard hellos
Which I will live for
When my next lover becomes eternally reckless with my crystal heart.

Grayson Herrg, “If I were to write you a letter this would be it” (via petrichour)
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Love and Other Drugs is on

ninewheels:

Remember that part where Anne Hathaway’s character mentions getting tested for syphilis and receiving a negative and being very happy about that, “not relishing the idea of feeling like a 19th century slut”.

SO MUCH FUNNIER NOW.

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Maybe I’m dreaming you. Maybe you’re dreaming me; maybe we only exist in each other’s dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other.

Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler’s Wife (via xynh)
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Write hard and clear about what hurts.

Ernest Hemingway  (via lafillecurieuse)
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hellogiggles:

Just wait for it…

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