It’s been a full year and a day since William and I first started our relationship. What a year, what a decade, it’s been; how I’ve grown and matured through various milestones, some more prevalent than others:

I think that joining cadet was one of the first times I grew up. Learning and knowing that I hated being there, I adapted and changed things so that I enjoyed it. It’s a skill I need to carry through life. 
Another one that comes to mind is my valedictorian speech from grade 7. Looking into my brother’s eyes from afar as he videotaped me speaking, I remember how I felt and how he must have felt. I’ll always love my brother and sister, even though we’ve all grown apart. I grew up that day, knowing that I couldn’t be babied as an elementary school student. I slowly began to appreciate my literate and writing skills. I realized that you don’t have to be popular to succeed - after all, it was a unanimous vote for me being one of the class valedictorians. I take pride in that.
Cadets - a milestone, year after year, for all of the accomplishments and experiences had. I’m proud of how much I grew in those years. It makes me tear up when I remember, at the Gunnery Chaining Ceremony, Johnson Fong (who I admire) telling me that he wanted to chain me. And that he was proud of me. That I’ve come so far; “from being quiet and shy… to this.” 
Quitting cadets was another; I braved up and realized what situation I was in. I quit for myself, because I cannot gain nor give more to them. I can only yearn for how I used to feel. But it’s a cult; cadets swallows you up and it will guilt you into returning. I escaped that with an optimal amount of benefit. 

I’ve become a better person in the long run, and I am still working at it.

Things can change, and I’m glad I’ve done what I’ve done.
I have decided things that will occur. There is no doubt about it. Maybe I will regret it later, but in my clear head as of now, I know that some people have deep seeded personalities; now that I see the traits, I am all for neutrality and nothing more. I need to keep myself reserved for the better.

        The air tastes bland with you in my life. I feel as though the anticipation I once carried in my heart has dissipated through my heart strings. As swirls of molecules, of atoms, I can feel the happiness in my life seeping ever so quietly out, in to the wide, open air, where it is not only free, but lonely.

And heaven knows there is enough loneliness in the world, in each rusting heart we hold.

I did not make the right decisions, but I will stick with the outcome and consequences because if I didn’t, who would I be, then? Satisfaction and greed more often than not are side by side, and by God, I cannot emphasize my dissatisfaction enough. Although, when I was satisfied - when I was greedy - when I was happy - when I was entirely taken by the flow of life, I was still asking for too much. I am no longer entirely to myself, and that disappoints me. I gave myself away, each wrangled limb on my brittle body. I have no true desires, for I have tasted them in my past, and I feel the failures that come to it. I am not allowed them, because others will not be glorified at the same time. Remember the traces of my past - I lost, was loved, and made another suffer. Reminisce in regret, put others in front of yourself. What happened to that? I play only so barely to the edge of the idea, when I should be completely indulged by it. I should be in the God damned center of the thought, enveloped by the servitude I proclaim to be an ultimatum. Of what? Of punishment, perhaps. Maybe I’m just punishing myself. This pain, this aching tear that widens with each second I spend immersed in the words - it feels all too real to not be a punishment I put upon myself. By God, I cannot feel the righteousness of what is supposed to be - but the yearn for what was. What was, even? Nothing more than memories and wishes gone to waste, good intentions and terrible executions, ones that tore others apart, one that destroyed me from the very start. Which do I miss more?

I can only replay the memory of our hazy afternoon,
The one where you turned to me with sleepy eyes and craned your neck to kiss my cheek. I smiled and held you even closer to me. If I could spend every morning, every time I woke up, like that, 
Then I wouldn’t mind waking up at any hour.

You have taken to calling me beautiful whenever the term arises, and I can’t help but remember when Ryan once joked that you were supposed to call me beautiful after I walked away. This was much earlier in our relationship, at the very break of acknowledgement, and you turned to them seriously to state your position in belief. Do you love me? It almost felt as if for every time you asked to hold me wherever I pleased, every time you followed the tips of my fingers to the door, you held me in a way that asked me to tell you that I loved you. But I do not love you by your definition, and you have made that clear. I have always clarified my own resignation of love.

I dreamt that one of your friends sent you a text that went to a great length explaining how happy you seemed, and how much you seemed to care for me. I wonder what people have said, what they have thought, to each other. I’m glad your friends have accepted me and don’t mind including me in the group. I’m quite flustered, in fact. 

Oh, you.

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It is not an excuse to be scared of love. It is a reason. Nobody can guarantee the presence of someone forever. People break promises because they are human. You rip each other apart, strip pieces of the other’s hands while you hold them. You expose yourself and let yourself bleed, and that is how you grow to trust and understand each other. You give each other pain that comes of the demand for love. When you love someone who does not love you, you are holding their still intact hands by nothing. You have been stripped. All the layers that made you have wilted away, and the person holds, instead, something more fragile than the last strand of muscle that was. 

They hold the iridescent power to ache your heart forever.
They hold the only piece of you that can break infinitely, and still function properly, given time. They hold the rapid thumping of your heart, but not the heart itself. The breath you hold in your lungs when you come to embrace them is in their hands. You are in the air that they hold. You are naked to the soul. You have given them what you have, and it is okay for them to not love you back.

It is okay if they never love you back. Of course we will hope that they do love us back. We wish for them to secretly love us. We wish for them to love us in the future. But it is okay if it never happens. The likeliness that they will love you back is high, but nobody can say for sure that they will. It is okay for people not to love you. It is okay for you to love them. It is okay for these things to not be mutual. It is okay for these things to not reciprocate. It is okay to sacrifice everything for another, if you believe so.

In the midst of the navy night and reek of children’s squeals
I dream of you and the softness you bring to my fingertips
And although I fear your absence ever more,
You know I love you and frame you well in my heart.
Your lack of is acceptable, the pressure is faint,
My adoration for selflessness entwines every day.

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I think that if someone truly loves someone else, then they would do anything in the world for them. If they love someone with all their heart, they would hold them dearly, kiss them passionately on the neck, face, lips, shoulders, and they would never leave the person. If you really love a person, you can see yourself marrying them, moving in with them, feeling the way you do for the rest of your life, touching them every day, crying with them, being angry with them, and you would promise the things you intend to give them. 

If you love someone, then there are no boundaries. You admire them, adore them, respect them - you want them to see you at your best, and you want to help make them their best. You want to watch them grow and be happy. You want to be the person they look at when they’ve done something right; something good. 

Someone they can tell secrets to.

I have never been told the things I tell others before. And then, there was you. I asked, you gave. You asked, I gave. Take me, entirely, and don’t give me back: “Please stay with me for as long as you can.” 
"Only if you want," he said while he stroked my arm, holding me close to his chest. "You’re wonderful," I kissed the words onto his forehead. "Good, you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it." "Why?" "I can be a better man." I could love the man you are now. 

Someone I wouldn’t mind cuddling with for hours on end, whispering serious things and sneaking kisses here and there.

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"i wish you loved me"
"please stay with me for as long as you can"
"please stay with me for as long as you can"
"good, don’t. i don’t deserve it."

and i know for sure now that i wouldn’t mind
spending every day and night
with you, because today,

i looked at you while you were sleeping so closely to my face, and i couldn’t help but smile. your thick eyelashes crisscrossed, shiny black streaks against your slightly tanned face. your lips slightly apart, your breath even, light, and steady. i thought of you in a light that i do whenever we’re so close to each other. i’ve often wanted to paint you. although i’ve never painted before, there’s something telling me in the back of my head that your sweetness and modesty could only be expressed by thick strokes and excess acrylic on an easel. all the hues of blue, red, and white on black - i have never wanted to paint someone so badly before, despite never even having painted in my life. you opened your eyes and it’s blurred in my mind whether or not you asked, ‘what?’, but nevertheless, i could only turn my face into the pillow and try to suppress my smile. you’re such a wonderful person. and you’re indescribable. 

"I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much."
Sylvia Plath (via durianquotes)

(via durianquotes)

This is an emotional high I want to remember.

I feel like the navy blue of his sweater; he is filling the depths of each layer of my heart with words, kisses, and trust. There is a great wave of persistence I wade in. Each fiber of that, which I wore several times in adoration, describes one touch, one sweetened memory.
I can feel the skin of his chest and back, his shoulders, his cheek, the hair on his legs. I cannot count how many times I have touched him, though my heart throbs at the reminiscence. There is a shamefully abrupt nostalgia that overcomes me; I stifle a smile and giggle for how he has impacted me. His effect on me has been so intense that I don’t wish to return to how I was. It was harsh and bitter, then soft and better. My ear rests on his chest, accounting for each heartbeat that quickens and slows to my caress and graze. I secretly hope that my heartbeat does the same when he hears it. I secure his back and kiss the shoulder blades that protrude. They are wings that carry him to me, wings that leave me, wings that I crave the presence of. He will watch his front, and I will hold his back, I will protect that, and nothing may hurt him without undoing me, first - that is my implication, my distress when crying to his back. His shoulders that sweep his neck, a broad tapestry woven with strength and burdens I wish to relieve. His coarse hair that waves on his shins; a mighty forest, he would understand. I’m addicted to them. To each hair on his body, each breath that skims me while rippling towards my heart - I tremble per succession.
I want to be the trickling light that seeps through the blinds, I am the one who wants to wake him. I want him to be happy, to never be frightened. I want him to live truly and wholly. I want him to see me and smile. I want to be someone of significance to him. I want to support him and understand him. I want to taste the sweetness of his kisses, the offering of our hearts when our eyes meet. I want to hold him away from danger, pain. I want to promise him the world, if not my own, and I want to pamper him. He deserves so much that I am merely scraping surface of; the only thing I could really want from him is his love. 

A dim wonder of the worlds, his uncertain loss, my compelling covet.

"I’ve been a follower of yours for a while now and I’ve been witness to many personal posts. You deserve better. Every relationship you have, you approach with caution and when it turns out badly its you’re way of proving to yourself, ‘I was right’ and you attempt to shield yourself even more. You shouldn’t carry these things in your heart. Leave them behind, and approach with a fresh start, leaving the past behind. Often, you seem past your years, but remember you’re 16. You have years ahead."

I once dated a writer and

Writers are forgetful,

but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
like ever,
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful
they’re busy
the important things.

(Source: ofheightsandhollows, via traveloucity)