Dave watkins doing some magical stuff here… (at GlobeHopper Coffeehouse & Lounge)
feeling nostalgic for my youth
Tatia PIlieva captures true intimacy and how a first kiss between strangers can be exhilarating, frightening and beautiful.
there are some nights that I cannot sleep. I toss. I turn. I twist and I cry. I don’t know why? I don’t know how this burn in my chest still exists. I don’t know why I feel compelled to let these words out, but i fear if I don’t then it’ll just crawl into my veins until it completely takes over my soul.
I was remembering when you used to make me egg sandwiches at 3am when we were drunk and telling stories of how our evening came to an end. You always made my bacon so crispy. We used to giggle like we were kids at a sleep over telling our stories til dawn.
i miss that when life is eating me alive and i feel i can’t breathe, you were always there to tell me things would be better and then you would do this absolutely ridiculous dance that would be make me laugh. I feel like you were the only one who ever got me. it was as though we shared this invisible ribbon. I never felt alone even when you were gone. I never felt as disconnected as I do now. I don’t share that bond with anyone and I fear ours has to end.
I feel so foolish to think that I can replicate any part of this life. All I seem to be replicating is this emptiness I feel. sometimes I roll over and I just wish i could see your face again, hear your voice. Now when I see you I just wanna scream and ask you how this all happened. You are this visceral memory of a life I once had and now I find myself in the same place I was before it all happened. Broke, alone, and unbound.
should i be over this? should i hate you? should i still love you? i dunno. i just miss those 3am egg sandwiches and the laughter we had before holding each other to sleep. We still woke up with headaches and “never drinking again” testimonies, yet the whole time we were getting there, it was worth all the pain.
I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.Charlotte Bronte