If God made anything better, he kept it for himself
I have a dream-mother. / She sang for my thirst, / mysterious songs of God / [and] ate into my heart / violent and religious.
(via sunbathe)
(I Miss You- Clean Bandit)
and amidst the dawning of golden lights on our faces, I saw the 2am nights stuck under your eyes the same way they used to be plastered all over my brain. so you remember us in bedroom dreams of how we talked in theatres until we got kicked out and how the clouds in the skies mirrored the candy floss in our heat-bitten hands, skin cracking at places most held… how memories fade into bittersweet nothings and how lattes and lips all taste just the same. battered and red eyed angels crowd at my throat, clawing at it to try to get to the funeral speech I’ve swallowed in the fears of falling for you again, even when we’re dead. would you even be there at the funeral? I know we’re not supposed to talk, but I’m getting ahead of myself. how do breaks and waits turn into dead ends? when do the pauses become so silent and long that the laughter leaves the skin to rot into an empty, broken skeleton of what was once home?
(I can’t believe it at all).