5 hours ago with 574 notes

*dying whale noise*


*dying whale noise*

(Source: ero-miki)

1 day ago with 362 notes
There are no faster or firmer friendships than those formed between people who love the same books. Irving Stone, Clarence Darrow for the Defense (via quotes-shape-us)
1 day ago with 2,993 notes

lazy mornings, lingering in bed. simply the best. 


lazy mornings, lingering in bed. simply the best. 

(Source: urbanspiritglobalsoul)

3 days ago with 158,043 notes

(Source: nightvalemeteorologist)

3 days ago with 844 notes

I am walking in the city when I see him. Sixteen, with a cigarette in mouth. Wearing a white shirt with stains in the underarms. Knock-off Wayfarers tucked into the collar. Hair slicked back. He is pulling a comb from his pocket and out comes a lighter too. He smirks, flips his comb open, lights his cigarette and then, while looking off into the distance, finally answers my question. “Yes,” he says, “I’ve got a lighter.”

Two years later, I skip gym class and find a boy sitting on a snowy tree stump just past the school gate. He is 18, with a large wool peacoat thrown over his lean body. A bit of pudge sticks out from under his wrinkled white dress shirt. I see him drinking beer after beer, and smiling larger with each one. I shiver and walk past him, until he calls out, “Hey, you got somewhere to be?” I turn around. “Not really, no.” He scoots over, making room for me on the stump. “Want to take a seat?” I sit down slowly and offer him a slight smile. He takes a sip of his beer-cheap stuff, likely stolen-turns away from me to burp and then excuses himself, and then says, “Cigarette?”

At the end of the school year, I see my boyfriend lighting a cigarette in his car after an exam. “You smoke now?” I ask. I am so annoyed with him. He tries so hard to be something that should take no effort at all. I have to look out the window to keep from cringing at his deliberately untucked shirt, artfully messy hair, and now the cigarette posed perfectly between his “just chapped enough” lips. “I’m stressed,” he spits back at me. I study the snow and roll my eyes. When he’s finished, he starts the car and puts on a smooth jazz station, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the song. Three months earlier, I tried to take him to a jazz bar and he told me everything I liked was “old-ladyish and weird.” When we reach his house, I get out after him and then steal his pack. Later that night, he heads to his car to “think” and then comes back a few minutes later with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. “That was fast,” I say. “Yeah, I just had to get some fresh air,” he says, while slipping into bed, smelling of nothing but pine. He is snoring in two seconds, so happy to be relieved of his smoking habit that he’s fallen asleep half-smiling. I look at him for a few seconds, then slip out of the covers, grab his pack from my jacket pocket, and go outside. I return smelling of tobacco and pine.

A few years later, I take myself out to a bar and see a man putting his cigarette into his mouth, flicking his lighter, and smiling at me as he inhales. A cloud of smoke is blown into my face as he asks me my name. I give him a fake one. I don’t feel too much like myself-eighteen, and standing on a street congested with bars and traffic at two a.m. We go into the upper level of the closest bar and inside, he buys me “whatever’s on the tap” with the change in his pocket. “Honey,” he says. Honey, darling sweetheart, butter pecan lips and sugar hips. “Honey, what are you doing in a place like this?” He is combing his hair as he says this, and I am suspicious that he is only looking into my eyes in hopes of seeing his reflection. I laugh in response. To this, he declares, “I need a smoke break.” You can tell that he likes saying that more than he likes actually smoking the cigarettes. He opens his pack, puts one in-between his teeth, and then offers one to me. I shake my head. “Suit yourself,” he says. “I won’t be too long. Otherwise I’ll start to miss you.” I watch him walk down the stairs as I sip the last of my beer. I am about to join him when I notice a back door. I check my watch, then walk down the bar’s fire escape and go home. He can’t miss what he doesn’t know.

That night, with my elbows resting on my fire escape, I light a cigarette and look at the sleeping city. Hot red lights, trucks unloading in the dark, the occasional scream of a car horn cutting through the stars. I suck in deeply, hold the smoke in my throat for so long that I almost forget it’s there, and then exhale. Gone. I am secondhand smoke. I have been breathed out by so many mouthes that the stale smell of me clings to your clothes. I am in your new girlfriend’s hair when she comes home from the bar. I am floating outside your window when you return to our old apartment. And I am blackening your lungs one touch at a time.

The Cigarette Stories | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
3 days ago with 16,113 notes
3 days ago
keep it to yourself

My lids are dropping
Low like the sun
Like the tide
Like my ever-dwindling faith

Flowers don’t belong in your hair
Tucked behind your ear
Poking through your ribs
Winding around your limbs

I wish someone would hit my car
Mangle it up, totaled.
I only have 10,000 miles left
And the air broke.
Like I’m breathing the inferno.

4 days ago with 999 notes
9,561 plays


Crawling back to you.

5 days ago with 11,138 notes

(Source: slayboybunny)

5 days ago with 60,023 notes

(Source: youthcub)

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