“We are three and a half years
and four thousand kilometres apart.
Today is exactly half a year
or six months
or twenty five weeks
or one hundred and eighty-one days
or more than four thousand hours
since we first started speaking.
I can’t remember what it’s like
to sleep without dreaming of you,
to drink coffee without thinking of you,
to be drunk without drunk texting you,
to breathe poetry that wasn’t for you,
to shiver at the sound of another voice,
to get butterflies from my name
wrapped around a different accent,
to long to be in someone else’s arms.
Everyone knows I’ve never
been good at simple math,
yet I could determine the function
for the curve of your spine with ease.
More than four thousand kilometres
and four thousand hours
and I love you more than I’d like to admit.”—
Four thousand one hundred and seventy-two kilometres and four thousand three hundred and forty-four hours to be exact. (via uhuhuhgabby)
“Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”—Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales (via honeyforthehomeless)