Liberty Ross for Vogue UK january 2004 by Norbert Schoerner.
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I hope you find someone who knows how to love you when you are sad.
I’m telling you I can’t predict the future. But I know that his voice reminds me of nostalgic songs playing one Saturday afternoon with their accompanying slow dances in living room and in his eyes I see ocean painted walls decorated with picture frames of our love coalescing into something grander than we could ever imagine. Something out of storybooks because what we have is real. I’m telling you I can’t predict the future. But I know that I wouldn’t mind the humdrum of the early evening to start off with his footsteps at the door heading straight to the kitchen that smells of freshly baked lasagna and hello kisses. I want to trace his face when I’m half lulled to sleep by the sounds of his heartbeat and I want breakfast served with his laughter from across the dining table. I can’t predict the future, but his touches make me think of the pitter patter of rain against the window, a backdrop to a scene of legs tangled on the couch and a mess of buttered popcorn adorning the floor and our fingers. I think of a bad comedy film that was hardly seen because we spent the last hour whispering secrets and making plans for tomorrow. I think of brushing against each other in the kitchen as he tries to make a tower out of pancakes and I bellied with laughter - and he comes to poke my nose with his caked fingers. I can’t predict the future, but there’s something beautiful about socks sprawled on the carpet, grocery lists, two toothbrushes, and a laundry filled with plaid. There’s something wondrous about being dressed in all promises and affection. Chasing each other into tomorrow and the next day and so on. Fighting but making up for the wounds. Finding each other over and over again because even though we’ve landed already, we still haven’t finished exploring. Choosing to stay. I can’t predict the future, but I know that he is love - the kind that defies the dictionary term because he isn’t cookie-cutter perfect, and I don’t want him to be. I want him in all his wide-eyed, boisterous self. I want his sleepy sighs and quiet too. All his flaws. All his loving. I want the weight of his love to press tenderly against my chest, and mine to press against his chest. I want even the bickering and dreary days because I know having the lights off is still better than an empty room. We can still turn them on - we always will. I can’t predict the future, but I do know that love stays - and love is him and he is love.
What does happiness feel like?
Is it a time or a place? No
Happiness is forgetting yourself when you’re with someone else
It’s the how long have we been sitting here talking feeling
What time is it? I have no idea
It’s the feeling people get when we automatically connect invisibly unintentionally
Maybe it is intentionally
How would I know
I didn’t major in psychology
I just know I love you and you love me
He didn’t love her for her body.
He loved her for the way she belted out the wrong lyrics while blasting music driving down the highway.
He loved her for the way her eyes brightened like stars on a cloudless night when she saw him.
He loved her for the way she twirled around in her pretty blue dress, barefoot on the soft grass.
He loved her for the way she fumbled over the piano keys, creating a barely recognizable melody.
He loved her for the way she woke up on an early morning, all grumpy and confused, wrapped up tight in a blanket.
He loved her for the way she splashes around in the ocean, kicking the water at him and motioning for him to join her.
He loved her for the way she loved him.
He didn’t love her for her body.
He loved her for her careless, sloppy soul.
I’m scared of the future, of who I’ll become, or what we’ll do to each other. But most of all I’m scared that you’ll end up being a stranger. And I’ll never know what was in your heart when you gave it to me.
sarcolinedream (via wnq-writers)
I can’t read any more love poems.
I can’t write any more empty phrases that will eventually be nothing more than letters
on a page.I want a love that is too profound to capture. A love that exists outside of my mind and the English language.
I may not remember anything about her, but I would bet her smile was my favorite part of her.
Nobody knows what you feel inside unless you tell them.
Banksy (via banksyarts)
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