I’m not sentimental—I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,
is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic
person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.
― F. Scott Fitzgerald (via man-of-prose)
Anonymous: hi is your name eloisa? where u from?

Uh, It’s not my real name. Someone used to call me that for a little while…I guess sentimentality just got the best of me. 
I’m from Phil :) 


And solitaire’s the only game in town
And every road that takes him
Takes him down
And by himself it’s easy to pretend
He’ll never love again

And keeping to himself he plays the game
Without her love
It always ends the same
While life goes on around him everywhere
He’s playing solitaire

He said he was so sorry. He said that no firsthand knowledge and experience on our swimming class can ever save him from drowning in his own guilt. This came from a guy who barely ever takes the blame on any of his other mistakes. I told him that I’ve had worse, but it didn’t stop an avalanche of tears from streaming down on both of my cheeks. I was sorry, too. I was sorry for the aborted feelings and foolish wishful-thinking. As I had feared, everything came to a halt. It’s all my fault. I wanted to apologize to the both of them, but all I ever managed was, “I’m sorry. Good night.”

Why am I crying
why am i crying
why am i crying
why the fucking shit am i crying.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be… and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
― Andrea Gibson (via petrichour)
There’s something far worse
than missing a person you shared
a fraction of your life with.
And that is missing a person with
whom you did not.
For you will neither be allowed the
pleasure of their memory, the echo of
their love, the warmth of knowing
that once upon a time you meant a damn,
you were of some importance, you will
not even be allowed the small joy
of a smile that comes with happening
upon a note they once wrote you in
the bottom of your drawer.
It is a sort of hollow longing,
a dreadful nostalgia for a thing
that never quite happened.
Beau Taplin || The hollow longing.  (via afadthatlastsforever)


You awoke the pretty, little butterflies.

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