- Anne Boleyn (via larmoyante)
I love you, and you have served me well. I know you know that I’ll soon be replacing you after 5 fantastic years, and I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but I would really appreciate it if you’d do one last thing for me.
Please connect to the Internet. I’m sure you don’t want to lose all favour to my iPod and phone. There’s so many things I can’t do without you.
Please, receive me and receive this. I need you.
Don’t leave me just yet.
So.. This is for sure not my most eloquent speech.
I’m ill and I feel so absent. All day I’ve been feeling hot and cold; with aching bones, a rattling cough, and the occasional piercing headache.
You know that feeling where tv isn’t tv anymore, it’s just scenery for the eyes? That was my evening, after I slept all day. Now loneliness consumes me as I can’t find sleep.
In films and in books, I’d have a beautiful boy to message me, and look after me. He would have come round after school or work if he could.
My dad brought me flowers earlier, but I was too delusional to say thank you.
I just wish that some day in the future, some day soon, another man, although hardly yet a man, will love me.
I’ll be perfect for him. I’ll love him, and I’ll soothe him. I’ll smile and laugh even when I feel as shit as this. Today he could have talked to me about anything, and I would have been glad to lend my half-listening ear to his words.
When I’m well though, I’ll listen and understand with every fibre of my being.
But today; I’m ill.
You never really know someone until you’ve read what they write at 3am when loneliness consumes but does not destroy them.
He picked her up at eight, like they do in American teen movies. Pulled up outside her house and took a deep breath as he looked towards the light in her window. Curtains draped in front of the cold glass barrier that barricaded her within four walls, painted a pale cheery yellow.
She pushed the front door open, blue with a brass handle, and stood in the warmth whilst he walked towards her, offering her his warm hand to take as she stepped into the darkness.
He lead her to the car door, opening it in silence as she slipped inside, making herself comfortable on the worn leather passenger seat, noticing the musky smell of the old ford, and wondering how many girls before her has sat here, with how many previous boy owners who sat at the wheel, turning a fist of keys in the ignition and releasing the clutch.
A date is a date. That’s all it is. Two people saving an hour to meet upon, plus or minus a few seconds. “Shall we set a date?”, “What’s the date today?”, “Save the date”, “Oh, that was the date when…”, “When’s the due date?”, “Have you set a date yet?”.
Why do we tiptoe around things by referring to a wider picture.
He supposed that it was easier than telling people that they were “going out as two people experimenting with being more than friends, on a specified date, at a specified location, for a not necessarily specified duration”.
She was just happy to have a date.
They drove and they dated. They talked and they saw. Time passed and she wondered what it would be like to kiss his lips. Time passed and he wondered what it would be like to kiss her lips.
She remembered a quote from the Lord of The Flies, something about the arm of humanity. She remembered whispers and nudges in corridors and she saw a look of pain in his eyes that said something wasn’t quite right. She knew she hadn’t been the first to see this; the way he could remind someone of a startled deer in the headlights, melted mellow brown and burned chestnut black.
He was stuck in the middle of a road he was scared to cross, like a rabbit with myxomatosis.
All of a sudden the keys weren’t being hit anymore. A whirlwind was in my mind.
“Me.” It yelled. “He’s scared to cross to me.”