Relation Therapy

The hours I spent waiting for you; even when it was beautiful outside. 

(via streetsofberlin)

skeletales:

dearscience: she won’t ever let you in, but she wants to keep you in her corner (by Everything’s magic))

(via godlovepeacebeauty)

You asked me more than once, always in a different place.

Curled in bed with the lights out and our pinkies touching. Drunk in a dim bar, after five beers and after we both wondered aloud, how will we get home now? The first night we met when you ate out of tupperware and I stared at everything around us.

Why did you move away? Why did you come here?

Then, my answer was always the same. 

(via tamaralichtenstein)

During those final weeks I never thought to myself: these are it, these are our last days. You had moved into a small 1-bedroom that was dark and had built in air conditioners in every room and a titanium fridge with stickers still on it and all I could think was, generic, you went generic. I biked to you to escape humidity, I told myself. But that’s not entirely true, I also told myself.

Before leaving my apartment to come to you I always put on a cuter dress and wiped sweat, then powder over my nose (quickly) after buzzing your door. I wanted you to look at me. 

(Source: sabino)

The Five Stages of Grief. Even after you crushed me and left me and said: I don’t want to be with you, I still wanted you around all the time (Denial). It was as though I hadn’t spent hours sprawled in my parent’s hallway panicing, sobbing; your words repeating in my head, my fists clenching when I got to the part about you leaving me (Anger). I just want it back, I would tell you (Bargaining). I wanted to wake up and watch you from bed: clean both your ears with one q-tip, iron your pants in a navy blue towel - you always put your socks on first. I loved catching your eyes during this routine because I was rewarded with kisses all over. I never told you about how easy it was to catch them (Depression). 

Not together, but together. Now together you have to ask before you do anything. Can I come into the shower with you? 

Acceptance. 

(Source: tamaralichtenstein)

We drove home and hours and trees and tiny towns with only churches and diners flew by. I woke up when my seatbelt started jabbing my side. But that whole time the sun had been burning my face and you had apologetic eyes: You fell asleep so I changed the music. I blinked and blinked and stared at you and blinked because my contacts were dry and why would I care? Moments later you asked: Did you ever have an eating disorder? 

(Source: tamaralichtenstein)

The moment I stop, you go. We are always off by just one minute, I would think, as I texted words to bring us together. 

(Source: sabino)

We took a cab home and started what we later finished on top of my red flannel sheets. The next morning we held hands into CVS and I bought the morning after pill from a concerned pharmacist. As she told me about side effects, you held up a stuffed Easter bunny and yelled from aisles away: can I buy this for you? I shook my head, no. 

Later we saw Modest Mouse but we were so far back and everyone was so tall; I had no appetite for anything, really. So I watched you nod your head and clap to the music, sipping beer. I knew it was our last day. 

(Source: sabino)

Minnesota-bred girl living in New York City, dating a milk drinking boy from Wisconsin. After our first date I road the express train home to Brooklyn and daydreamed about driving back to the Midwest together, once the city didn’t make sense for us anymore. 

(Source: quesofrito, via eliz)

You walked towards me as I laid curled up on your couch, and said: I love you. I smiled with all my teeth just as I realized the words were not for me, but for the dog. It happened again and again and one more time weeks and months later. It took me too long to learn that I would never get those words from you. Not even if I fit perfectly on every piece of your furniture. 

(via eliz)