Heartbreak is not meant to be a permanent resident.
You’re my favorite person to come home to because your touch is comfort, your embrace is peace.
Date someone who can sit with you in comfortable silence and just hold your hand.
Home is where you wake up early in the mornings, realizing that it is where life fixed in firm and perfect patterns, indelible and infinite. Ancient and for always, back and forward.
Having you wrapped around me is like coming home for the first time, each and every time. Calm, blissful, a perfect euphoria.
Perhaps, this home lies deep within For everything is, but mere illusion
Maybe cities are a lot like relationships, if it’s not meant to be, it will never feel right, it will never feel like home, it will never work no matter how hard you try.
I don’t know about you, but the messier my apartment, the more cluttered my mind seems to be.
Moving, as with most things in life, works better with intention and focus.
And yet, New York, I love you. And I don’t mean that in the colloquial way, but in that ridiculous all-consuming inconvenient can’t live without you kind of way.