Lullabies

by Lang Leav

Her Words Love a girl who writes and live her many lives; you have yet to find her, beneath her words of guise. Kiss her blue-inked fingers, forgive the pens they marked. The stain of your lips upon her— the one she can’t discard. Forget her tattered memories, or the pages others took; you are her ever after— the hero of her book.

My Heart Perhaps I never loved enough, If only I’d loved much more; I would not nearly had so much, left waiting, for you in store. If I had given away my heart— to those who came before; it would be safer left in parts— but now you have it all.

Thoughts of You There were times when I was with him and it was too much. Does that make sense? When someone stirs a world of emotion in you and it’s so intense you can barely stand to be with him. During those moments, I wanted so desperately to leave—to go home, walk into my bedroom, and shut the door behind me. Crawl into bed and lay there in the dark, tracing the outline of my lips with my fingers—replaying everything he said, everything we did. I wanted to be left alone—with nothing other than my thoughts of him.

He’s Leaving My nine is your noon; I’m just packing now— your winter, my June. wish I could pack you.

Passing Time I feel the end is drawing near, would time be so kind to slow? You are everything to me, my dear, you are all I really know. But as I sit and wait and fear and watch the hours go— Everything that happened here happened long ago.

Perhaps it had something to do with how I looked at life. My lack of care. My indecision. I wanted everything because I didn’t want anything enough.

Then I met you and it changed me. For once in my life, there was something I wanted. So much.

For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the wo...

Signposts What if certain people were signposts in your life? Representations of good or bad. Like an old friend you see across a crowded street, one you wave hello to, before hurrying on. The last time you saw them, things took a turn for the worse and, as sad as it may seem, they have unwittingly become an omen—a precursor of bad luck. Or that one person whom you rarely speak with, who can always be found right where you left them. You carry their smile with you like a talisman—for whatever reason, their presence in your life will always bring the promise of better days.

Then there is the boy you can never stop thinking about. Whenever you see his name, it trips you up. Even if it’s one that belongs to many others, even if he belongs to someone else.

You know he is a symbol of your weakness, your Kryptonite. How he rushes in like wildfire and burns through everything you worked so hard to build since he last left you in ashes.

Wtf fave

So you do the only thing you know how—you put as many miles as you can between him. As many roadblocks and traffic lights as you can gather. Then you build a bold

red stop sign right on your doorstep, knowing all the stop signs in the world could never hold him—they c...

Three Questions What was it like to love him? asked Gratitude. It was like being exhumed, I answered. And brought to life in a flash of brilliance. What was it like to be loved in return? asked Joy. It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence. What was it like to lose him? asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded: It was like hearing every good-bye ever said to me—said all at once.

Acceptance There are things I miss that I shouldn’t, and those I don’t that I should. Sometimes we want what we couldn’t— sometimes we love who we could.

Fading Polaroid My eyes were the first to forget. The face I once cradled between my hands, now a blur. And your voice is slowly drifting from my memory, like a fading polaroid. But the way I felt is still crystal clear. Like it was yesterday. There are philosophers who claim the past, present, and future all exist at the one time. And the way I have felt, the way I feel—that bittersweet ache between wanting and having—is evidence of their theory. I felt you before I knew you and I still feel you now. And in that brief moment between—wrapped in your arms thinking, how lucky I am, how lucky I am, how lucky I am— How lucky I was.

The greatest heartache comes from loving another soul, they said, beyond reason, beyond doubt, with no hope of salvation.

I did not take you with me, but you were never left behind.

Love’s Inception I did not know that it was love until I knew. There was never another to compare with you. But since you left, each boy I meet, will always have you to compete.

Pretext Our love—a dead star to the world it burns brightly— But it died long ago.

Living a Lie Thoughts that she cannot unthink; a life that she cannot unlive. Skipping stones to watch them sink; she envies how they easily. Sorrow wraps her like a scarf; waiting for a small reprieve— falling in and out of love.

Soundtracks He once told me about his love for lyrics. How the words spoke to him like poetry. I would often wonder about his playlist and the ghosts who lived there. The faces he saw and the voices he heard. The soundtrack to a thousand tragic endings, real or imagined. The first time I saw him, I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, in the way a melody draws a crowd to the dance floor. Pulled by invisible strings. Now I wonder if I am one of those ghosts—if I am somewhere, drifting between those notes. I hope I am. I hope whenever my song plays, I am there, whispering in his ear.

A Winter Song She was the song, in a chorus—unheard. You were the summer in her winter of verse. Yours was the melody she wanted to learn; it clung to her lips, in silence it yearned. It seems as though now, you forgot every word; in a field full of flowers, she was the first. There once was a song you reminded her of— she no longer longs, yet she still loves.

A Cautionary Tale There is a girl who never returns her library books. Don’t give her your heart—it is unlikely you will ever see it again.

I often wonder why we want so much, to give others the very thing that we were denied. The mother working tirelessly to provide her child with an education; the little boy who was bullied in school and is now a Nobel Prize-winning advocate for peace. The author who writes happy endings for the characters in her book.

Forewarned If a boy ever says, you remind me of someone—don’t fall in love with him. You will never be anything more than second best.

Mixed Messages The questions you had never asked were things you were afraid to know; everything that has come to pass, you’ve made them all up on your own. There are many words you never said, that others dreamed you someday would; each of us for all our days— will live our lives misunderstood.

Masquerade As a writer, there is an inclination to step inside someone else’s shoes, to get under their skin and see the world through their eyes. In many such scenarios, I have slipped into these roles with the greatest of ease—then out again with the same dexterity. That was until I found myself in character, playing the girl who falls in love with you. It was then the line between fantasy and reality were so blurred that I no longer knew who I was. Yet, there was clearly a point when my role was well and truly over. When I had gone above and beyond the required word count. Where I had exhausted every new angle or approach there was to writing our story. I know it’s over, I really do. I know it has been for quite some time. It’s over, yet my heart still feels you. You are a memory to me now, but my mind still thinks of you. What we had was finished long ago—yet the words will not stop flowing.

Perfect He said to me “You’re perfect, and I want you to be mine.” But I felt I wasn’t worthy and to be perfect, I’ll need time. I knew it would be worth it, I could be better if I tried, then he got tired of waiting— and I watched my chance go by.

I lose you every time I think of kissing you, holding you, or wanting you. I go to bed at night and lose you, when I wish I could tell you about my day. And in the morning, when I wake and reach for the empty space across the sheets, I begin to lose you all over again.

Souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to be with one another.

This is the reason why you miss someone so much when they are not there—even if they are only in the very next room. Your soul only feels their absence—it doesn’t realize the separation is temporary.