TheQuibblerGoneMad

last night was the first time i ever told anyone i loved them. and i dont think you heard, but that doesnt really matter. it matters i that i dont know what it means when i told you i loved you.

this person you're talking to. she doesnt know much. nothing of consequence. You she knows the difference between a raven and a writing desk. and what its like to fly. how she doesnt like the 20th hour of the day and how it feels so childish. she knows that anything to the power of zero is one. and prime numbers are often favored more by people who have problems. know nothing she knows that she only hits the spacebar with her right thumb and never uses the right shift and thinks that rolling gutterballs are better than any strike. she is certain that hope is a slut nostalgia is a bitch love is a whore and death is

whoever said hope is a whore is a liar. hope is a slut whose cliched hobby is breaking your heart.

 i remember when you told me that there are exactly 5.3872 twinkles in each star i've wished upon that night

Dear Boy with the Broken Eyes. Just because they have always said it, things have always been difficult. And they are right. Life has always been difficult. Things will never happen the way you want them to happen. Broken hearts are so much easier to find than mended ones. And dreams? Well, if the world ran on dreams, we'd be building a whole new universe already, just to escape our own jaded one. When I met you, you had already seen the worst of this world. They told you that you were not allowed to love because you couldn't do it the right way. They informed you that you weren't a poet, just a vagabond with tragic fingers on a broken inst

"Google it." "Do I want to?" "What do you mean? It's just Google." "You say Google like it's a good thing. Like it's an entity that bears some sort of universal answer." "It's a search engine. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless we go into Google Maps, but it's all the same difference, on some satellite-dish stalking level. You search for a place, it finds it for you. Especially in America. Yeah, they have the streets labeled in America." "That's creepy. The zoom-in function too. Like, you can zoom down to street level and stare face to face with someone's house. Sometimes you can see their cars too. But never people. That's the part

you kissed December softly on the lips, her eyelashes fluttered against your skin and something inside of you glistened like moonlight. you kissed December with a mouth that had whispered 'i love you' many times before, but you said this time was the only one that mattered. you kissed December and i know she tasted sweet, like time being rewritten just for you. she must have tasted like music as her hands touched the nape of your neck. you kissed December like she was an angel that smoked weed in parking lots, getting high enough to see her sisters. you kissed her like she deserved to remember worship. you kissed Decem

there are not enough words to describe the feeling of goodbye. goodbye is like fire breaking forests into cinders, a favorite song played on fast-forward, all the familiar words blurring into something new and uncertain. goodbye is a decision made for you. it is a suitcase full of a life you're pretending not to leave behind. it is hands fumbling in the dark like two lovestruck teenagers with just not enough time. goodbye is stuffing your heart with mothballs hoping it isn't full of holes when you return. goodbye is writing letters in the back of your journal because writing them at the front would make the loneliness real.