from the passenger seat

take my hand, i’m dying to take yours. i’ll plan innocent adventures and i’ll kiss you on the cheek. i’ll remember everything you like and wonder about all the things i want to tell you. i’ll write you an ongoing letter and one day i’ll give it to you, all of it, my whole heart wrapped up in pencil and recycled paper. maybe a piece of stone and some sleek metal slipped in there are well. i bleed rainbow emotions and penciled words and i’ll cover the pages with them, and i can’t wait to give them to you.

because i know, i know i know, you feel it too. somewhere in there. and that’s all i need.

every time i see you, i forget how much i want to tell you everything.

(via 365thoughts)

fuckyeahlifeadvice:

(via 365thoughts)

i want to read a million books. i want to curl up in the sunlight, i want to devour the written word. i want to paint the life outside my window, i want to sketch these figures across the sky. i want to remember you forever, but forget you for now. i want to run my fingers through the pulsing waves and squish my toes in the soft grass. i want to drive too fast and play my music too loud, sing for all the strangers to hear and forget what’s behind me. i want to remember how to cry, just so i can know how happy i am since i can’t. but most of all, i don’t want to be touched. because only that can burn me, and i’m as free as a bird when i’m totally alone.

just wondering. because i just realized how much you really did.

and here i am now, writing down how much you once cared for me, and i’m so wrapped up in these texts and dreams and far away places that the real you doesn’t even phase me with his ability to let me slip by.

i have a million things to say, to do, to be, with you. but i’m in no rush, even if the clock is ticking.

she burns her book, and i begin my own.

i’ll write to you until you return.

i get this feeling like there’s somewhere else i need to be, someone else who wants me there or could find it useful. i suddenly feel i’m wasting precious time, wasting it on someone who’s as predictably fleeting as a caged bird. and i can feel it’s stopped being about me and how you make me happy, it’s about them now, and how i can make them happier. she tells me this was the right choice, but sometimes i’m not sure. shouldn’t you be telling me that? i wrote you a dozen questions and i wish you’d just pick up the game where we left off. but you’re busy, you’re gone, so i’ll stop worrying about you and give my heart away piece by piece to people who need it to breathe.