The Virtual Typewriter

phoenixenchanted:

Sigh. Something about November, maybe. The way even these desert skies defy the sun with endless cloud cover and sharp, unforgiving wind. Maybe it’s the mythical Veil, said to thin to nonexistence at this time each year. Maybe it’s the trench coats and gloves and scarves that suddenly drown the streets. Maybe it’s the red everything, the leaves that fall like they’re falling in love, nature’s silent sadness. It’s a season of nostalgia, of old romances and bittersweet memories. And people like us, with our secret identities and writer’s hearts— we never stood a chance. Because as much as we ache this time of year, as much as the desperate, fleeting beauty of autumn reminds us of lost things, we cannot help but love November the most. 

Come hide under the blanket with me.

herdirtylittleheart:

I’ve been thinking about my (ex)girlfriend a lot lately. Our relationship always had an imbalance, me doing too much tending and care-taking and her hot-and-cold routine keeping me just on the edge of giving up, but pulling me back when I had finally thrown my hands up in frustration. She was an artist when it came to knowing my breaking point and dancing along it so gracefully.

I loved her. I knew she was a broken girl with a good heart, I knew she loved me too in spite of how difficult she could be, she showed me in the rawest ways.

I’m a grand-gestures kind of girl, a heart-on-my-sleeve kind of lover; You’ll know it if I like you because I’ll make sure you feel it. “Nobody has ever loved me the way you do,” she said once through happy tears.

Even though I was the one who decided to stop the cycle, who decided that the only way I could keep my heart in-tact was to let go and stop enabling and fixing and carrying her, I still have this urge to call her, to write to her, to send her things that profess my love. Because it never went anywhere. It’s here, with me, always.

And I think of her when I smell her perfume, or her brand of cigarette. I think of her when I see girls in trench-coats, or champagne coloured shoes, or when certain songs come on the radio. And I smile and I ache just a little.

We had a good love. And it was one I had to learn from and grow out of. But it was a good love nonetheless.

I just died a little. These are beautiful. My goodness.