I don’t pretend to understand why the shadows of the sun grow long and fast across my room, blowing curtains in the wind reminding me that the earth is moving.

Because, you see, I feel so very still. And silent.

And even though it is summer and the days are long and sticky— supposedly sweet,

I feel a chill against my skin. That is, when I feel anything.

And I don’t pretend to be so grey as to whisper seductive words of sorrow and aching.

I simply remind you that while my lips bleed red, my eyes sparkle in the shadows.

the shadows of the sun as it passes across my empty room. Onto the shiny wooden floors, and across the pale walls. 

And the piercing eyes grow lidded in the dark. Heavy. Eyelashes thick, each one a reminder of a soft blanket of forgiveness against the cheek. Lips grow pouted. Hands grow limp.

I start to shake sometimes, with the stillness of it all. It isn’t so much loneliness as it is longing for something that cannot be found. Something that doesn’t exist.

So no, I don’t pretend to understand the reasoning behind it all, the shadows in the sun. The crystals in the dust. 

(Source: whiteellene)

Of the reds

(Source: seabois, via lovelikewolves)