Snazzy Babble

You filled the silence between us
With cigarette smoke.
I was afraid of lighters.
I thought there was a ball of fire inside them
Waiting to be released from its prison.
You kept matches in your pocket
Because I liked lighting your cigarettes.
I haven’t lit a match in five years.
Your ties still smell like smoke
It’s as if they can’t let go of you.
There are nights where I look into my eyes
And see a fire that you put there.
Other days, I see the remains of a spirit
You let burn to ashes.

We were sitting on your great grandfathers patio counting how many humming birds were at the bird feeders. Your whole family was talking at once, asking me varying questions. There were the polite, mundane questions: Where are you from? Who are your parents? How long have you been together? Then one of your cousins asked what every romantic wants to know—how did we meet? You explain that you were running late for work and ran out of the house without having a cup of coffee. By your lunch break, you were exhausted and needed to fuel your addiction to the bitter drink. 

“I had just sat down when the small bell above the door rang, announcing someones arrival. I looked up and saw small shoes colored a striking blue step across the barrier, one after another, making a staccato note with each dainty fall against the stone flooring. That’s when I knew that I wanted to know you.” 

Your family smiled for us and you kissed the top of my head. Then you said as an after thought “If I weren’t addicted to coffee we never would have met.” 

It was then that I wondered for the first time how many times we never met.

How often were we on the same subway, both sitting next to a stranger who would never be anything more than a stranger? Perhaps we passed each other on a weekly basis; just two people sharing the side walk. Do you remember when we found out that your mother and my grandfather were buried in the same cemetery, twelve bouquets of flowers apart? You visited her every Sunday before church. I visited him every Sunday after church. I wonder how many times we stood in the used bookstore on the corner of Pine, flipping through a book we knew we weren’t going to buy. 

You said if it weren’t for coffee, we never would have met.

I’m not sure if I believe that though. I believe that soul mates are always crossing paths, because if two people are meant to know each other, they will find a way to meet. The period of your life that you meet them decides what they will be to you: a lover, friend or mentor. Maybe we only meet them when we are meant to. Maybe I could have been introduced to you a dozen times last Winter and we would have still parted as strangers, struggling to remember the others full name. 

Perhaps we find our soul mates when we are able to fully appreciate their presence. Or maybe I’m wrong, and if it weren’t for the fact you wanted coffee we never would have met. Maybe my face would never have caught your eye. Maybe you would always been on the 7:30 bus, while I waited faithful for the 7:45. Maybe we would have never crossed paths. 

I don’t believe that though.

I believe we have met over and over again, waiting for the day when we would meet and it would matter. 

lord-bidoof:

do you guys remember this cute video of a poodle walking on its hind legs?

well, in order for the puppy to learn this, its owner trained it by yelling, cursing, hitting, and throwing it. simply to gain internet fame.

video proof can be found here. warning: it is very hard to watch, but this puppy deserves justice.

if you’d like to act, here is a link to a petition

more people need to know the truth behind this “cute walking puppy”

(via feveroftheworld)

snazzybabble:

“We hold the preciousness of the moment in this parking lot of good-byes. And I expect we’re not done seeing each other…At the end, maybe I can meet you. And in the meantime I’ll write you things that keep us from falling apart. The light rushes out and floods this parking lot…I love and cannot follow her. She turns around and I see the physical space between us.”

(via snazzybabble)

The world passes by in a blur of colors.
Headlights acting as lighthouses,
Streetlights acting as nightlights.
Moonlight setting a glow to the pavement
That makes the broken glass shimmer.
Fragments of metal splayed across the four lane
Like trinkets dropped by toddlers.
Cars tip toeing around the mess.
Screams echo over
a symphony of radios.
Oil and blood paint the concrete
Like graffiti—
Creating hidden messages
that will be washed away
With bleach.

• Question: I know this is isn't a question but I just have to say, whoa. I really loved that prose piece you just wrote. It honestly, inexplicably gave me chills. - winedarkseas
• Answer:

  Thank you so much! That means a lot.

We stood by the ocean. He held my hand as though it were an after thought, like a pair of keys he forgot he was holding. The wind blew my dress up to my thighs, but I was too young to know about modesty. We watched the waves rush to meet the shoreline; my breathing was in sync with the oceans. 
Inhale, exhale. 
Inhale, exhale. 
“Do you know what insanity is?” He asked.
Inhale, exhale.
“I think so.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Doing something over and over and over again.” I answered 
Inhale, exhale. 
I watched as the ocean kissed the shore and wondered why the beach never kissed back. 
“Are you insane?” I asked. 
Inhale, exhale. 
Inhale, exhale. 
“I’ll let you know.”

the-absolute-funniest-posts:

frostirons:

helioscentrifuge:

Hey. Don’t just scroll past. Come back and watch this. You need it more than you know.

Legitimately crying.

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