I hope every night is stunning where you are. In my words, you are a legend.
All I want to do is be at Hogwarts with you, eating turkey legs in the great hall while listening to the carols of the ghosts gliding past us. Then maybe we can go to Hogsmeade to get a butterbeer.
You are the illness I will never cure. You are the poem I will never write. You are the thought I will never finish. You are the text I will never read.
If you are the land, then I am the sea. I don’t need you and you don’t need me.
I’d love to wake up to complete silence, white sheets, and the smell of crisp air and roses.
I visit you in my dreams and you talk to me in songs. Each sentence is a bridge taking me closer to the city that you are.
I wish to offer the world more than just beauty and plastic moments. I wish to offer the world depth, conversation, poetry and wisdom. I hope you do not deny me when I open these doors.
Make your life a work of art and you will never die.
You’ll live through my words and my pictures, and I’ll live somewhere the skies are blue.
We were not meant to read stories anymore. We were too busy writing our own.
We may be just a drop in the ocean, but even the ocean envies the depth of our love.
Why does everyone see me as a sink when I am an ocean?
If you think my waistline defines my worth, you are not worth my time anyways.
I am all things, I am not your words. I am defined by me.
I sleep and sleep and sleep, yet I still have an unquenchable thirst for it.
I miss the thrill of your self-destructive heart that melts in the sun like chocolate, bittersweet and incandescent.
You were always the Harry to my Hermione, flushing away my erratic anxiety with the rudest sense of realism.