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i'll keep you like a secret.There are a lot of things I can't tell you.
Not because I'm keeping secrets locked behind my teeth or because I'm afraid I'll say something you don't want to hear. This isn't like the last time or the time before. It's simply because I'll never have the exact right words to explain all the ways you make my heart rise and expand and skip a beat.
There aren't enough words to describe how quickly the blood rushes through my veins when we kiss and I'm on tiptoes to reach your lips and your hand is cupping my face, brushing your thumb across my cheekbone and I feel completely at home.
And they haven't even invented a way to portray how I feel when we're driving too fast in the streets of our hometown, and how I can get lost somewhere that is so damn familiar because I have the chance to explore it with someone new someone like you and you're singing along with the radio, letting me fall asleep in the passenger seat, because you and I are enough, and we don't need words to fill
these are the last things i'll say before i'm goneIf I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.
If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.
I won't admit how much I miss you I can't, but I can tell you this.
The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.
And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be differen
we're all made of stories.We're all either made of cells or stories, but in your case, it's both. You're somehow bigger than what one body can contain. And I know that all of this all these words and breaths and spaces aren't enough to explain you. You're better than any fiction will ever be.
I remember sitting in the passenger seat of your car, watching the familiar city streets flick by, fast like a picture book. It felt like there was something I was missing between the pages and second story houses, but I couldn't place it. I had my arms wrapped tight around my middle, holding my insides in since I was afraid with every passing moment I would let their contents spill. You wouldn't look at me, but you kept talking. For the first time ever, I wished you would stop. You were telling me that you could never love me and I was completely aware that I had already foolishly followed you in too deep and now you were letting me know that you had been drowning for years. You were promising to take me und
I hope it's worth it when I'm gone.I can't even pretend things are simple anymore.
It's raining again, and with every crash of thunder, I miss you more than I can bear. I know it's not worth saying, because really nothing much is anymore, but it doesn't make it any less true.
It's eleven ten on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in the middle of the grass, watching the downpour spill off the roof. My t-shirt is clinging to my ribcage, and my hair is sticking to my face. I can feel the water running down the ridges of my spine, the backs of my hands, clumping in my eyelashes, but still, I don't move. Sometimes, when I can't stand what the world is doing anymore, I allow myself a thunderstorm to wash everything away.
It's the meteorological equivalent to a clean break. Faster to heal -- or at least, that's what they say.
The lightning is tearing across the sky, cutting through the darkness like a crack in the atmospheric layers. I'm staring at this like I half expect all the air to disappear around me while the world disinte
if i knew what this meant, i'd tell you.I'm positive that you're still missing the point.
Your house is just over the hill and I keep gasping for breath like this is the first time I've ever been alone with you and my skin hasn't memorized the loops and whirls that your fingerprints make against the indents of my hipbones. Sometimes, I act like I've never met you before because I'm afraid of losing the excitement of falling in love. I once heard that everyone is just looking for the next big thing someone brighter and better than me. You've already started calling me "annie," because you got bored with my real name. I wonder if I should be scared. I wonder if I should be worried. I wonder why all my clothes still smell like you and why I'm counting off the minutes until I can see your face again. It's gotten impossible to know whether I'm telling this story backwards or forwards. We're all in the wrong order.
Every time I sit down to tell you my history, I realize that I'm always talking about things that didn't happe
this isn't progress, because you're irreversible.You were never meant for me.
I knew it in the most obvious manner. It was in the way you had a subtle sort of comfort in your own skin a quiet and humble confidence while I struggled to make sense of the prints on my fingertips and the way one of my eyes crinkled in the corner more than the other when I smiled. You felt safe with yourself while I was always warring with my own reflection. Half the time, I didn't know who I was. A quarter of the time, I still don't. You would call this progress if you were here to see, but I just call it sad.
When you miss something for long enough, you start to forget the exact way that things happened. Or the exact way they happened to fall apart. For instance, I don't remember the first time you didn't call, but I do remember when you told me you loved me but not enough. It's never enough, is it? The point is you were gone before I could even say goodbye. You were gone before you were ever really here, but somehow I let myself bu
these feelings should be finiteI'm terrified and I know there's nothing unique about this, but I'm standing here completely out of touch with the rest of the world, realizing for the first time that we all feel things a little bit differently, which is why this doesn't hurt for you at all. I figure the only logical reason for how you could do this as if it means nothing was if it really did mean nothing at all for you. It's easier to hate you this way. It's easier to forget you without the burn of your kiss against my skin. It's easier to stay mad if I don't have to remember the way that it felt. Most of all, I can forget this as if it's a memory in someone else's lifetime if I accept the fact that we're all different. I can be different like you. I can let this mean nothing.
I could mean nothing if you let me. If I let me.
You talk in big words that I get sick of hearing after awhile with big ideas and wide eyes and a small heart. I once heard that you can only love something so hard, for so long, before the feelin
it's a quick drive to where we live.I know you don't believe in beautiful things. In fact, I know you don't believe in much of anything. I swear that's okay, because what I'm asking of you isn't meant to be built on blind faith it isn't meant to be a split second decision. I'll give you the time you need.
Everything is brighter from the passenger seat of your old four door sedan with the black paint chipping off the front bumper, rust eating through the edges and corners of the doors. I've never seen so many shades and tints of green as I have curving around the sides of these country roads with you too fast, too slow, too here then gone. When you drive fast enough, the entire world disappears. It took us a weekend and all of Wisconsin, and you still won't tell me where we're going. It's okay though. You could be my home.
Lake Superior always comes in cold. The water laps at your ankles, freezing your skin, sending a quick chill through your bones. It reminds me of you with your too cold fingertips against
you're a series of unconnected thoughtssometimes i wonder
if it's really true--
if history really does just
and now we're stuck in its loop where
you're holding everything back
and i'm holding everything in.
and there's nothing to do,
but hope for the best
or at least something better.
but for now, i just wonder
if there's anyone else
who misses quite as much
as i do.
it's never enough to remember,
but it's always too much
bird songi told myself i'd never compare the two of you
but his eyes are so much brighter
if we still talked i'd tell you, i'm happy now,
in the saddest of ways but i am happy now,
i would say, momentarily, warily,
but somehow i would.
just don't you tell me, you're happy too.
these roads we travelYou could've been the girl who changed me.
I've fallen down and fallen apart enough times that it gets hard to remember, but sometimes I study my scars in the sunlight and trace the patterns back through time. I spend my mornings living in memories, reliving the places I've scuffed myself, and I've found that romance is better in hindsight. Her kisses are sweeter tinged with nostalgia, and it almost feels like I'm whole again when I'm thinking of the dents she put in my pulse and smoothing out the wrinkles she left in my resolve. For a moment, there's equilibrium, but then the sun is setting and I'm disoriented, dropping fragments of myself between cracks in the sidewalk I'm following down the street and towards an independent sunset. I'm standing on the corner and waiting for the light to turn, and you show up with a wayward smile cradled in your fingers. You press it into my grasp and I'm thinking maybe I've spent too much time looking at my flaws instead of my potential.
You could h
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
find it in your
to feel a little something
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.
i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.
i have so much to
i could give you so much
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shared your self
with someone else
and been safe-
you would have been
emotion, embodiedthere are things
living in me
that bring the floor
to my knees-
powers like concrete
of my bones
filled with something
i have been
holding my breath
for so long
that i am scared
to let my body
or give vessels,
living in me,
the means to
i pray to god,
a being unseen,
that i will
kill off these things
living inside me;
all i manage
is kill off
the opposite of a love letterSometimes, I think you forgot me.
To admit it, most days I've forgotten you, too. But sometimes a moment comes along that feels like you in my bones, and suddenly you're crashing through my veins, riding my pulse straight to my heart. And you sit in my chest, heavy and unwelcome, and it's hard to breathe because I cannot shut off the reel of memories playing in my head. So I close my eyes and count to ten, breathe evenly and steadily, tell myself that you are miles and years away. But I wake up the next morning with a dry taste in my mouth and a hollowness somewhere in the pit of my stomach and you're hanging onto me like a shadow even though it's already high noon.
You are a seasonal affliction. During the winter you are buried with the sunlight, but the moment the heat rises and the days lengthen, I can feel you. Last Tuesdays I drove for no reason with the windows down, the scent of fresh rain on hot pavement and shaved grass slapping my face, and it smelled like the curve of your c
alivei want to be buried in
a grave made of water
because i write poetry
but don't understand it
because i know how to feel
but not how to cope
or how to tell you what
it feels like to die
my mother will cry and
her garden will still grow
but she will not take down
photos on the windowsill
she will age dutifully and
retire, travel the world and
i will only regret not being
able to see her finally happy
my brother grow up without
knowing how much i cared
but he will still think
of me on his wedding day
his eyes will be a window
not to his soul, but a world
of pain and loss and he will
wish that i could say sorry
and the boy who knows that
he was the only one i loved;
he will lose himself in the
thought that he had the chance
to save a life, but didn't;
he will read my poetry and
not understand why but know
that i loved him more than life
i will fade to dirt, and from
me will grow a peach tree, with
the type of leaves that children
will make boats out of, sail
across their puddle oceans
go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories. i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be. but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.
i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt. i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won't ever say that when you managed to pull a few words together for some girl you haven't even touched, well, i won't ever say that all i feel like doing now is unravelling the skin on my arms, down to the bones, and watch as rivers of red fall out of me like stars.
maybe i'd be beautiful enough for you then. i
on an envelopewhy do my d's and l's look like yours when i write your name?
it's just been a little carousel,
spinning in pirouettes,
in my mind all day.
all i know is i'm glad i don't love you.
i don't know why you aren't relationship material-
in all honesty, you are.
i don't know why you treat me like your girlfriend-
kissing my forehead,
holding me gently,
touching me sweetly,
asking to see me,
sixty miles out of the way
in a city i can fall in love,
with no promise of sex-
all i know is i'm glad i don't love you,
& i hope it stays.
the look to letting you goi hope i ruined
like a smudge
i like reminding you
of the things
i am sure you proudly
ache my heart,
when i try
bookmarked my skin
where you last
so that i may
open the pages
and read us
when i feel a little
all i want is to look across
a span of space-
a floor, a bed,
the breath between
and see another
holding me like light
within warm eyes.
it is likely
we will not make it
through the night;
in this case,
i hope that,
with my last,
i learn to love
i'm telling myself not to get my hopes up.It's been a long time since I felt like this.
It's all small kicks of my heartbeat
and subtle smiles when no one's looking.
I'm checking my phone messages
more times than any girl should,
but you're not letting me down.
You remind me of a time when things were easy
before I memorized what sadness felt like
and stopped feeling alive.
And for the first time, I don't feel broken
in a way that can't be fixed.
I don't feel like I was built in a way
that doesn't fit.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More