I take things too symbolically;
I correct myself.
Is only water
From your tired body
Is only tongue on teeth on bottom lip.
In the middle of the night,
All that decides is instinct.
So we are tongues and legs and chemicals.
Love doesn’t make.
Love is a storm we climb in like a life boat
Pulling on each others’ bodies and eyes like ropes
To raise the sail so we both don’t drown.
I thought my love would be loud, exploding with passion in fireworks that everyone could see. But instead I found it resting in your dark skin, your long hair, hiding from the world together in your apartment in the rain. I was the only one who knew where you lived. I could disappear.
The reason I keep saying goodbye is because that’s the time you kissed me the hardest. By the doorway. Untwisting the lock.
“How sure are you you want to leave?”
It depended what you would say next. When I cried you kissed me harder. Your feet planted into the ground, your whole body committed to penetrating mine with your lips.
Like when you leaned your arm on the brick wall over my shoulder the first night. All my rationale clouded over at even the hint of your touch. You wanted me to stay put. I just wanted you to miss me when I left.
— Albert Camus, A Happy Death (via sisyphean-revolt)
(via fuckyeahexistentialism)Posted 1 week ago