i just love it when you hold the door. . .

new stars look like stale hearts burning;
new feelings... placid. placid. placid.



wishing. fixing. re-do-ing. rushing. running. panicking.
waiting. breathing. fluttering. looking. talking. laughing. slowing. wandering. sinking.
playing. smiling. clicking. wanting. thinking. whispering. staying. letting.
shivering. embracing. kissing. holding. yawning. leaving.
...remembering.


feeling better.
feeling good.

close that

it's suddenly so, so silent - shudder. sitting on the edge of the bath watching slants of warm sunlight glide in to beat on the white, cold tile floor your toes are touching. and what do you care how cold i get? after all, cold only means awake. and that's what you remember isn't it? how cold things got.
each slant like a memory. fading as the minutes pass. but you're staring, glaring, entertained by the memories that possess you. her delicate laughing, eyes that were neither blue or navy. navy, definitely; that's what made them so special. they've been teasing you for weeks with their absence.
each slant like a memory. fading.
now it's time to give the transparent, warm water the permission to wash it all away. but this water is useless. you can barely feel it. spilling down your back, strumming your body, gently. like a weeping willow on a summer's day.

after, you crawl into the bedsheets that you loved, that float over your skin. they can finally keep you warm - she kept you cold for so long... but dragging the duvet above your waist is like pulling the carpet up from the floor and the weight feels almost impossible to hold.
the dark only invites the thoughts of her. maybe you liked the cold?
time to sleep.
...the door is half open. you'll have to get up and close that.

cds of you. novels of me. lyrics of us,

sometimes when i sit in my room i look at everything. and how pretty things can be when you really watch them. all my books, each one bought with the intention of re-living a different story.
is that the way you listen to your music? do you want to forget?
my shelves of memories. that sometimes i think you have, too.


when i lay awake in bed at night thinking... i'm almost certain you can hear me. and i think the thoughts i want you to hear me thinking - where are you, how are you?
how alluring you can be in my head, if not in person.
i can still hear your voice, vaguely. everything is blurry and faint. like a ghost you glimmer, leaving your memories behind. folding up slowly and deciding whether or not to play. i suppose that's what forgetting is like.


walls that drip
and sheets that scream.
curtains to hide
a mind that taunts.

where were you last night?

everything's sedate. and wonderfully easy to handle.

lately i've been reading as much as i used to. and i'm really enjoying the innocent colours that seem to be coming into all the fashion magazines. particularly Elle- which is currently waiting for me in front of the fire. it's cover is soft and precious in light purples.
the pale colours of all these pictures almost feel like i'm standing in the middle of one of the tiny, candlelit sweetshops in my dreams. that is such a syrup-y feeling.
--
Try as he might he's unable to speak
He grabs her by the hair, strokes her cheek
Take me like that, ruin it all
Then build it again by the light in the hall
He drops to his knees says please my love, please
I'll kill who you hate, take off that dress, you won't freeze

He starts with her back cause that's what he sees
When she's breaking his heart she still fucks like a tease
Release to the sky, look him straight in the eye
And tell him that now, that you wish he would die
You'll never touch him again so get what you can
Leaving him empty just because he's a man
So good when it ends, they'll never be friends
One more night, that's all they can spend

She's gone, she got out before you woke,
and as always; last night, neither of you spoke.

a dreamer, someone completely out of touch with reality.

oh, how lucky i am to have known somebody so hard to say goodbye to;

i have a dream, that when im twentythree my boyfriend will runaway with me. Paris or the country- i haven't decided. i don't think that it matters.
we'll stay in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere.
i'll wear pretty, flimsy, light dresses and black tights- never with any shoes. and he'll wear simple clothes: band tshirts, grey jumpers, jeans, pale colours.
everything in my head is in pale colours- except our bedroom.
my nails painted red. but no makeup. a little mascara, maybe. he always liked my eyes.
baths instead of showers

he'll play his guitar and drink rum and coke while i clean the kitchen. quietly singing and bouncing along to every word i know. running my hand across his bare back every time i pass him. and watching him smile as I stand behind him and wrap my arms around his neck, only to kiss his cheek and tell him how wonderful he is.
and when i let him go, he'll lose the smile and as I begin to pluck different things out of the fridge, he'll put down the guitar and sing instead. waltzing behind me at first. later with me.. carefully. as if he'd break me if we moved too quickly.
the light fabric of my dress swaying with us. his hand holding the back of my head, and my head trying to tuck into his chest. and failing.
we're safe.

we'll wake up when it's dark and eat breakfast in the tiny living room (that will be more like a day bedroom) with pillows and bottles of wine and vodka on the floor and candles and fairy lights everywhere that can allow. tv won't have any programmes, but we'll be able to watch old movies like Steel Magnolias and Whats Eating Gilbert Grape. we'll have already seen them a thousand times. but it'll be better there. like everything.
eating cupcakes for dinner and drinking anything for supper. we'll laugh to witty comedy, play around.. in love. and we'll dance. we'll dance all the time.

in the early mornings; we'll go to our bedroom. (oh, how i love how that sounds.)
a very small dark marble fireplace, a double bed and a little window with flimsy white lace. and deep red curtains, so heavy you think they'd fall.
our bedroom is like the rest of our cottage - a little messy, but undeniably perfect (a description i hope my boyfriend and will fit into) the very dim lighting is from the candles that i have coated this tiny room with... and warm. the scents from the candles have made our bedroom aroma thick. hypnotic. romantic.
we can lay on the soft cream sheets. and touch very carefully what we think are each others hearts. time after time. it won't get old.

we'd have hardly any money- this seems, for some UNKNOWN and strange reason, incredibly romantic.

making me delicate

sometimes i feel so lonely. even when I'm talking to someone. anyone, really. the conversation seems pointless. and so much work.


the way you left me
made it clear
that this wouldn't be what I had hoped.
but i do think
it seems totally appropriate
to forget
that song you kept singing,
your green eyes- their silence.
my heart being torn up.
still
i'm dreaming
you're just the way i think you are.

and maybe
if I change my sheets
I might forget
what it was like
to be in love.

i'm sorry for playng hard to get... after the games were over.

i can't decide which song makes me sadder, Hide and Seek or Exit Music (for a film) so i've been flicking between the two since eight this morning.
do you ever twist the lyrics to fit you? sometimes i feel like i've changed the entire song for myself.


if we arranged to meet each other at six, i would be there at half.
he hated that. i hated that. i was always late. it wasn't deliberate. just inconsiderate.
but he would always wait for me.

i'd push that door open, just enough so i could see that he was there. i always felt horrible after i'd make him wait- guiltguilt.
i remember how excited i always was. i was always excited to see him. i'd pretty much bounce out of the car and into the lift.

he'd be sitting with his headphones in his ears staring straight ahead - towards the stairs. looking to see if by some sort of miracle i had decided to get some exercise and take the stairs. this was a rare occurrence and only ever happened if the wait for the lift was too agonizing.
i'd push the door open, and my bag would make that dreadful clink it makes. i'd let my head through the tiny space i'd opened and wait to see if he'd finally be angry.. Gradually, i'd let myself in the door.
and he'd stand up, and i'd put my bag down, and he'd watch me, and i'd begin to wait:
he'd stand in front of me, and i knew i could go one of two ways; i could a) apologize for being late or.. i could let him.
he stood there, right in front of me just the right amount apart, 10inches at the most. his hands would take my hips, and run back to my waist so slowly i thought i would melt. and my hands, would push the whole way up his chest, onto his shoulders and around his neck.
"i'm sorry I'm late.. therewastrafficandiwaslongerthannormalintheshower.."
"i missed you so so much, Lily."
and he'd let one of his hands rise the whole way up my back and onto the back of my head while my head found it's way under his chin.
he was never mad. never annoyed. never disappointed.
he was just.. glad i was there, i suppose.

so we'd sit down. and i'd ask him how he was, like i did every other day. he'd tell me he was good. and ask me how i was. i was never really able to answer.
i would only smile. he'd turn his entire body to accommodate mine. his hand, would be on the floor beside my hip - which it would later find itself attached to.
he would have his eyes, align with mine - he had the most amazing green eyes i have ever seen in my life. and if he ever cried, they would be so bright. like a highlighter, he always said. he was funny, too, y'know.
the way he'd look at me was almost mockingly. he knew exactly why i couldn't answer the simple question. not even with a one worded answer. once i knew he was fine... he has this little half smile kinda-thing. it's the most.. patronizing and the most wonderful thing he'd ever do.
and he'd usher the rest of his body closer to mine. i was sitting up against a wall, and it sort of sounds like he pushed himself on me. but that's not what he did at all.

his eyes would be right in front of mine, and i'd get embarrassed because i couldn't answer some lousy question so.. i'd look down. i'd look at his lips. i'd watch him smile. then i'd smile. and then we'd laugh a little.
it's all so romantic, now.
one hand, was on my hip. He had the greatest hands for making me smile. he always knew exactly what to do with them.
the other, found it's way from holding my hand, up my arm and the tip of his thumb would fall just on my bottom lip, his fingers under my chin (meanwhile, i'm still trying to decipher if i'm alright. the answer: no. obviously not.) He could really own me when he wanted to.
and then.. it was there. this delicate, little kiss that was just ours. that made everything else seem meaningless because it was so significant.
he loved me. and i loved him.
"are you alright?"
- i'd nod. there were never any words that could follow him after that.



Would you say that one of your dreams
Got in you and ripped out the seams?
'Cause that's what I'd say...