Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.”—Charles Bukowski (via dulcetdecember)
“I want to forget everything you told me. I want to wash away how uncertain you made me. How scared I was of losing you. How I lost you anyway. I don’t want to know how your hands feel or what makes you smile. I don’t want to see you in photos, familiar like a dream I had once or a book I never finished. I don’t want to speak about you in snippets or think about how I behaved. Or know that I still think about it. Or know that you’re not just a lamp or a blade of grass, indistinguishable from the rest.
“As long as I love you, I am not free,” I sent to you, thinking I was being cute. And it was woeful foreshadowing.
i don’t know what to tell you other than the fact that a giraffe’s heart weighs 22 pounds and that somebody once told me when flies fall in love, their entire brain is rewired to only know loving each other. when one of them dies, their memory becomes blank. i hope you never think about anything as much as i think about waking up next to you during a windstorm at 5 am.