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Amanda Westbrook. 20. West Palm Beach, FL. All I want is the sea.

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Downtime, I concern myself with the flimsiest of matters. My chest tightens and it gets so much harder to breathe. I think long and hard about the special knife in the kitchen drawer, about the ample amounts of alcohol and pills I keep in their respective cabinets, about the high rise apartment balcony I have all to myself. I produce a small smirk, emerging from somewhere in my stomach and suddenly feel so sick at these thoughts. Do you ever experience the feeling of drowning so high up in the sky? This apartment is ingrained with so much sadness, I wonder how I touch anything and feel okay anymore.

I try not to do it often, but when I’m alone, it becomes rampant. My fingers lightly dawdle on my sheets and I stare idly at the side of my writing desk. My window slid open, a slight breeze makes the blinds sway and fall back against the glass. Just a soft thud. I think of my future house. I feel apart from the city, the country, the universe.
I am prey to these types of thoughts often, and they only ever started so very recently. I wonder which floating building I will inhabit, which one sheds enough light to diminish all the shadows from under your eyes. I can’t help but to place you somewhere in the house, perhaps in the office, filing away papers. Perhaps lounged on the sofa, perhaps in bed. Without you, the thought of a house seems hollow. For no metal, no wood, no furnishings can replace your warmth. Why, yes, I’ll have to admit the world, the universe would become unbearable if I couldn’t look to your sloping shoulders at midnight, at your masculine form in the daylight. Seasons flood the streets around us and each one brings many emotions.
I can’t help wanting to brave them all with you.

I suppose I think too often about what he is doing now, where his feet are leading him, what expression inhabits his lovely face.
I can only wonder.

I spend so much time in my bathtub lately. Hours pass and I can hear the hesitation of a knock on the bathroom door from my concerned father.
The water calms me down. I sit and read, relax and think. I keep the bottle of whiskey close to the tub’s edge, pulling swig after swig, feeling the alcohol and water bloat me, prune my liver and my skin. The water stales after about an hour but I usually don’t change it. If I did that, I’d stay forever. No, the cold forces me out, but I know I’ll be back tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.

I’m swimming solo today. For someone who loves the water so much, I sure do feel so lonely in it without you. Who knew what you love could kill you, she says sarcastically, tossing her slick hair over her shoulder.
You’re not gone, but our days of playing shark in mountain side pools are far away now. The smell of chlorine hangs in my nose, always. As the sun sets now, I reluctantly pack my books and towels away and bid my grave adieu. I’ll be back soon, perhaps tomorrow, hopefully with my beloved in tow.

It’s apparently so easy to pretend.
Your teeth yellow in the process. Your hands shake ever so slightly, but it comes so naturally.
It hurts everywhere. You would think that feeling would eventually cease when it’s happened so often.
What if I can’t find a big enough bandaid this time?

Fingering the separated vinyl of the old diner’s corner booth, I acknowledged you talking for an hour. The walls were coated with a terrible dinge that seemed impossible to scrub off. I am ashamed to say I didn’t catch a single word that has slipped from your unusually cracked lips.

You seemed to have known all along, but kept talking anyways. Perhaps you needed to say it as much as I didn’t need to listen.

All I can see against the canvas sheet was her silhouette and she was just so behind the lamp that I could see every curve in her body. I felt suddenly uncomfortable that she didn’t know I was there, watching. I shifted my weight to make enough noise to alert her to my presence.
She lifted the sheet that separated us, wearing nothing but a lacy slip.

How to come up with words for the one I love?
All the harmonious words seem so cliché for such an amazing, unique feeling. Even there! “Amazing,” “unique.” They unintentionally undermine my feelings. I don’t know how to pinpoint, write accurately about the ones I love unless they leave me in crippling pain.
I want to write about the time we both had two days off from work and you spontaneously decided we were taking a trip to the Keys. How we spent the night trickling into Miami, eventually planting in this quaint marina hotel in Key Largo. No words seem to match my absolute wonder that night. I looked at you and saw animated stars swirling as a permanent backdrop to that trip. 
I don’t know where we will be in a few years. I don’t think anyone knows that.
But god damnit, even if I’m not with you, I will always remember that starry eyed wonder.

She’s too embarrassed to even admit to herself how many baths she’s taken today.
She soaks, a live toaster precariously placed on the tub’s edge. Her hand makes attempt after attempt to just swipe it into the warm water. It’s not that difficult. But it’s not that easy, either.

I need more to think, I need more to drink.

salamanderz:

nickmiller:

The pup and I have no words today. We’ll try again tomorrow.


Good luck, friends!

salamanderz:

nickmiller:

The pup and I have no words today. We’ll try again tomorrow.

Good luck, friends!


(via salamanderz)

Hindsight Is 51/50 

bonaventureblau:

I would take it back
From the very beginning
To avoid all this


(via bonaventureblau)

I miss you during the rainy season

But when the sun shines, I don’t remember who you are

Winter brings small pains, but nothing like the summer rains.

I’m up, usually thirty past your lips, pouted into that delicate slumber frown.
You wiggle around my rigid body, so still trying not to wake you from your perfect dreams. Your arms arrest my body further when they grab around my waist, pulling me closer to your warm chest.
Your breath tickles my neck, so close, I suppress laughter as I slowly wriggle from that position. Always.
You talk in your sleep, usually nonsense. I ask questions to prompt more chatter, I wish you were awake to make sense about all the things I can’t fall asleep about.