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Aug. 15th, 2018

Writing

(no subject)

That way lies death and ice. This way lies green swallows and blue trees. The other way lies a fire so hot you can't look at it directly. We're all mad here after all, aren't we?

May. 17th, 2018

(no subject)

A year or two goes by and she forgets. She lingers over the tomatoes in the grocery aisles but doesn't pause at the orange cherry tomatoes the way she would have a year ago. Coos over the baby in the stroller but doesn't touch a hand to her belly. She swings through the park on the way home and doesn't - doesn't, can't - flinch at the sounds of laughter and love. She sleeps in an empty double bed and leaves the phone off the hook and she doesn't ever step past the halfway mark down the hallway because that way lies a small room painted forest green.

Small blue shoes sit on the kitchen counter but she carefully stacks the big canisters of flour and sugar in front of them and she never bakes anyway. She forgets.
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Apr. 30th, 2017

Old books

(no subject)


The weather is softening, the sun growing shy and the wind getting bolder. It's going to be a cold winter. Rug up in your boots and your warmest jumper, smile at your loved ones around a fire. It's going to be a cold winter. But Jack Frost is mischievous not cruel and there's always warmth to be found.
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Oct. 16th, 2016

Risk

(no subject)

A distinctive thing about her is that for every scent, there is a memory. She walks past a tray of butter cookies and feels tears come to her eyes because once upon a time, a boy she loved baked her these and kissed her gently with cookies crumbs still on her lips. She presses her fingers to the leaves of a blueberry bush and remembers a time when sweet berry scents lingered in her mother's hair. She smooths the scent of milk and roses onto her skin and dreams of sunsets.

Scent is a powerful thing and she loves how the smell of cinnamon makes her think of cold winter nights by the fire but makes others think of apple pie. It's perspective and scent and feelings that touch your soul. 

Aug. 21st, 2016

Writing

(no subject)

Do you want to know a secret?

You don't have to promise. We have never needed words to communicate, only hand touches and glances and silent love. I feel safe in your arms. Sometimes when you place your hand on my hand so casually, I feel like I can't breathe. I catch the scent of green tea and warm sunlight and I remember you.

The thing is, the secret that you should know, is that you make me happy.
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Feb. 26th, 2016

Old books

(no subject)

Take a chance. Go on, take a chance and lean forwards. You steal a kiss from the girl you've loved forever and a day and she smiles at you, gentle eyes the colour of the sea. You look at his hand clasped in yours and you see maybe-eternity but not really because oceans separate hearts and you know that time is fleeting. So take a chance, go ahead and open your soul. The hurts will come and tears will fall, but at least you'll have tried and loved and lost.
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Nov. 21st, 2015

Old books

(no subject)

You're the one to stay behind a few extra minutes, removing post-it notes from the whiteboard and putting away the forgotten paperclips. You wander behind the desk of your captain and wonder quietly at the coffee mug stain - so perfectly uniform, so round and discrete that you are surprised every single time. All you need is love, sings the radio behind you as you smile at your partner's lopsided tulip in the clear vase (her husband brings her a tulip on the first of the month, because the first of the month is about new beginnings and their tulip is redredred). 

Apr. 23rd, 2015

Treble clef

(no subject)

You settle into the towering stacks and it's a little bit nostalgic. You read titles by Enid Blyton and there is a small fluttering within your chest that tells you this is innocence. Baby's breath and bluebells and skirts with gingham patterns. Kazuo Ishiguro and Chaucer and Dante's Inferno and you wonder is that castle meant to mean something? A lady all in white floating down the river and you think about loss and desire and love unknown. And sometimes you think about adventures in sun-lit forests and smile a little to yourself because literature and imagination is not just about making you think but about making you happy. 

Sep. 19th, 2014

Writing

(no subject)

He is long lines and a smile that goes straight to your heart. His hips move as if to music, broad shoulders filling out a red-checked shirt. You watch his hands flutter about with his words and you can't seem to concentrate on what he is saying because those fingers mesmerise. He's beautiful in the way you've only ever associated with sun-kissed flowers and a lake of shining green. You wonder if the press of his lips would be soft, would be fierce, would be everything you ever dreamed of as a child. 

May. 18th, 2014

Old books

(no subject)

Belief is a powerful thing for us. As a child, you believe that the colour green is much better to draw with than red because green is the colour of sun-dappled moss, of that lovely dress you've seen your mother smile in. As a teenager you believe that smoking is cool, that lung cancer will never affect you because you're more than invincible, and maybe somewhere deep inside you believe that hell is worth it. As an adult you believe in the value of gold, and you think that bigger houses and bigger cars can make up for the desperate silence at 3am. As you lie in the last years of life, you believe in memories that will last forever, in journals that hold your secrets and that for all your beliefs, you've never lost hope. 

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