I may not know what love is but I know what love isn’t. Love isn’t coffee grounds. Love isn’t the dress that you wear to a restaurant you have reservations to and love isn’t the way you treat your waiter when they serve you the wrong brand of wine. Love isn’t a rock with a gold and silver band wrapped around your finger tighter than your own grip between your hand and his and love isn’t a stupid card on Valentine’s Day composed of a bunch of shitty words you couldn’t take the time to put together yourself.  Love isn’t making your bed or picking up your towel from the hardwood floor and love isn’t a season’s greeting with your family posed in a context that would lead everyone to believe you are all doing much better than you actually are. Love isn’t mailing it out in December to family and friends who you haven’t spoken one word to in person for over five years and who you can’t even bother to call, just carbon copy them in an email. Well love isn’t fucking her and then telling all your friends about it before you refasten the belt above your waist. Love isn’t a title and by no means is love a prefix to your last name or a status update or status or statistic or a stack of papers on a desk you work at to earn money for a kid you hardly spend time with. Love isn’t a paycheck. Love isn’t taking out the trash. Love isn’t stuffed within the lining of tissue paper in a gift bag. Love isn’t a glass slipper or if it is it’s fucking shattered atop a crowded walkway that is stepped and stomped over by a rush of people rushing around to appointments and meetings they made three weeks in advance. And it is shattered into a thousand small and irregular shaped pieces and the best you can do is craft it back together with scotch tape. Love isn’t a treadmill. Or a traffic light. Or a light switch. Or a Q-tip. Love isn’t marriage. I will say it again. Love isn’t marriage. Love is not something you are entitled to. Love is not mutual. It is not shared simply because you share someone’s blood or DNA or house not home but house. Love isn’t measured in years or months or days or even minutes or seconds or milliseconds. It isn’t measured because it can’t be measured and it definitely can’t be measured with something as artificial as time. Love is not something that is simply pumped through the ventricles of your heart through the chambers of your heart love is not a tombstone love is not a fire or a flame on a candle and I do not know what the fuck love is but i know what it isn’t. 

(I think love is self-expression. I think love is selfish. I know love’s a four letter word with two vowels and two consonants and I know the term is often overused) 

3:43 am  3 notes

— Kurt Vonnegut (via centeios)

(via virtualash)

4:00 am  52 notes

five—a—day:

Last night I thought I kissed
the loneliness from out your belly button.
I thought I did, but later you sat up,
all bones and restless hands, and told me 
there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo.

I never know what to say to these things.
“It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.”
“Please don’t go away again.”

Sometimes you are gone for days at a time
and it is all I can do not to call the police,
file a missing person’s report, even though
you are right there, still sleeping next to me
in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house
in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders.

Except in this case I am the intruder and you
are already locked up so tight that no one
could possibly jimmy their way in.

Last night I thought I gave you a reason
not to be so sad when I held your body like
a high note and we both trembled from the effort.

Some people, though, are sad against all reason,
all sensibility, all love. I know better now.
I know what to say to the things you admit to me
in the dark, all bones and restless hands. 

“It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.”
“Please come back to me again.”

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