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What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?

She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On

Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would

wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave

them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and

a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was

studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t

open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call

begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked

walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the

violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my

gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto

the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.

She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd

questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she

couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She

would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,

"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her

eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies

and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll

scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask

him

– I’m sorry it had to end like this  (via 33113)

(Source: irynka, via sexxmeeupp)

Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.

Natalie Goldberg (via wethinkwedream)

(Source: writingsforwinter, via widdlefox)

methlaboratories:

CAN I GET A HELL YEAH IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING WITH YOUR LIFE AND YOU DON’T GET ENOUGH SLEEP

(Source: dannydevitofan97, via thebutthurtandthebrave)

lovequotesrus:

Everything you love is here

lovequotesrus:

Everything you love is here

(via unicorncandles)

imsirius:

Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka with Gideon and Harper + Halloween (2011-2013)

(via wh0re--m0ans)

heykachy:

omg he’s so perfect and she’s so lucky 

heykachy:

omg he’s so perfect and she’s so lucky 

(Source: qats, via wh0re--m0ans)

What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?

She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On

Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would

wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave

them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and

a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was

studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t

open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call

begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked

walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the

violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my

gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto

the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.

She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd

questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she

couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She

would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,

"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her

eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies

and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll

scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask

him

– I’m sorry it had to end like this  (via 33113)

(Source: irynka, via sexxmeeupp)

(Source: blushpink, via repressist)

Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.

Natalie Goldberg (via wethinkwedream)

(Source: writingsforwinter, via widdlefox)

methlaboratories:

CAN I GET A HELL YEAH IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING WITH YOUR LIFE AND YOU DON’T GET ENOUGH SLEEP

(Source: dannydevitofan97, via thebutthurtandthebrave)

lovequotesrus:

Everything you love is here

lovequotesrus:

Everything you love is here

(via unicorncandles)

whimsical-fucker:

yoooo

whimsical-fucker:

yoooo

(Source: purloiner)

imsirius:

Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka with Gideon and Harper + Halloween (2011-2013)

(via wh0re--m0ans)

heykachy:

omg he’s so perfect and she’s so lucky 

heykachy:

omg he’s so perfect and she’s so lucky 

(Source: qats, via wh0re--m0ans)

"

What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?

She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On

Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would

wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave

them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and

a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was

studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t

open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call

begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked

walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the

violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my

gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto

the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.

She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd

questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she

couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She

would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,

"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her

eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies

and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll

scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask

him

"
"

Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.

"

About:

I was named maranda. I'm trying my hardest to find my place in this world, and on the way I plan on having some kickass adventures. here is just where I vent and blog everything I love.

Following:

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~
*