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karenfelloutofbedagain:

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind. 

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. 

ao-oa:

I’m going to stand outside and let the rain wash the sediment of uncertainty from my skin

and then I’m going to get a cup of coffee

and then I’m going to continue moving forward with my life

jiatherockstar:

one.
shall i compare
our love to
the english language?
we are just as complicated,
built with rules and structures. 

two.
a semicolon weaved
between days where
we do not
talk out of anger and
pride; caving eventually from love.

three.
a colon for
a list of
things i love
about you: your kindness, the
way you cry at movies.

four.
a hyphen born
from our constant
want to be
with one another- inexplicably drawn
together like moths to flames.

five.
a pair of
quotation marks for 
the times we 
mouthed our “i love yous” 
like they were national secrets.

six.
a comma situated
between pauses of
sentences, where we
were too afraid to say
what we really wanted to.

seven.
kisses punctuate the
end of sentences
where ellipses are
supposed to be… i was
never one for rules anyway.