even when there aren't words

people still find something to say. and when it comes to talking about love, it is like dancing about politics. it seems completely useless and yet so necessary at the same time. and regardless of the inability for anyone to truly express what they are feeling in their heart of hearts, who doesn't want to read some one's attempts?

in that voyeuristic vein i seek out the pain and sweet nothings whispered in ears and scratched onto paper. today i love this one...

these are things that I could not tell you;
things that remind me of you when I want nothing more than to forget;
things that have gone wrong;
things that have gone right;
things that will never happen;
things that are your fault,
my fault,
the faults of no one;
these are things that we did not do and will not let go of

elsewhere:

from: http://sleepanddream.tumblr.com

and this:

10/3
Though we are strangers, he has already seen more of me than you will. He is wearing your shoes and your height.

I am not in love with you anymore but you are in my system. So much a part of me that everything I do still has pieces of you in it. I will not stop missing you.

Part of me hopes that I will run into you; the next time I take the train, sitting here now or somewhere totally unexpected. I know that we have no claims over each other but you did not feel wrong and that is so important.

We will sit three feet away from each other for hours, neither making a bold enough move. I will imagine our life together and he will listen closer to his music. We'll leave together, but not for the same place. My arms are open for him. He is three feet away and will not move any closer.

Couples curled on the few patches of grass, sharing homes with roosting pigeons.

There is no shame in a city like this.

You were a force not to be reckoned with, somehow unyielding in your frailty.

I try to smile honestly because I know that it is beautiful and I knew there is a difference but it is so hard when you have left me, so full of sadness.

I am still learning how to forget about you, but everything here is yours. You would have loved it, maybe even loved me, loved who it has made me become.

I don't know why I expected that I could count on you, so fast, so young. You were so much like him in every other way, why should this be any different?

It's not that I'm selfish or even hard-hearted. I'm just never sure when I believe you, or if I ever should any way.

by sophie bloomfield