I was trying to find my way home before I met you. Now that I’ve found you, I can’t hold on to home, like streetlamps are flickering in the distance and the light almost bends at the sound of your name. You are not a house in a quiet street, you are redbrick apartment buildings in the depths of Manhattan. Every time I try to talk to you, it comes out as taxicabs and gunshots, but you are the first person who has ever stopped the smoking bullet of my brain. And if chaos and silence ever met somewhere, it’s at the corner of Every Time I See You and Every Time I Watch You Walk Away. If tombstones were people, I would ingrain my name into your chest, but I can’t figure out if this is living, or this is having lived.

7-weeks//And the Lights Shut Down on Memory Lane. (via 7-weeks)
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