The footprints you left
on the shores of my spirit
never quite washed away
And with every flow
a little deeper
And I had forgotten what it was like to feel happy.
But a little bird told me that happiness had always been there
if only I had remembered to look.
I get lost with the world
in the hallows of trees
and his whispered lies.
But I drowned with
the flower you planted
in my heart
and it makes me happy.
And I am moving forward,
with every step
it gets easier.
And the summer nights
begin to cloak your ghost
with everlasting bliss.
I’m sorry, I don’t remember what theme I have. It’s been the same one for so long and I think I may have changed some of the html myself. But I found you really similar ones here and other themes can be found hereMay I ask you which theme you are currently using? If not the exact theme, then the site you got it from. Thank you in advance dear! I hope you are well. asked by Anonymous
If you love someone, if you have honestly, truly loved them, then a part of your heart falls away from you and lands in the palm of their hand. It becomes theirs to keep. Theirs to hold. Theirs to nurture or keep warm or give away or put aside or break. This part that they own—it is no longer yours. A little piece of you is bound to that person for eternity, and shows up in the milk of your chai latte and the last wooden bench on the boardwalk and that one indie song that nobody else has ever heard of. That’s what love does. It sprouts flowers around your soul and doesn’t let go. And how can you, after being so in love, so intimate with someone that they were your world?
But over time, those same passionate, blooming flowers lose their bright hues of pink and yellow and begin to fade. They wither but they aren’t gone forever. Because you see, time doesn’t make the wounds go away completely, it heals. It turns the love into a scar, so that the faint line running across your wrist or your collar bone or your hip bone no longer hurts, but stays with you. Maybe that person will linger in your subconscious, but then again, so does everybody else that you meet.
Until then, lie to yourself. Tell people you’re doing better when they ask how you are feeling. Tell them you’re happy. Because when you tell yourself something enough times, you start to believe it. Take up a new hobby, do something you could have never pictured yourself doing in a million years. Surround yourself with the people that have always been there for you before, and are there for you now. Slowly, those things that remind you of the person you love and the moments you shared become things that simply remind you of the person that becomes things that you’ve forgotten the details about. The roots on your heart will losen their hold.
Only when you allow yourself to be happy can you see more reasons to be around you. Other things will work their way into your life to mask the sadness. It may take a month, three months, a year. But know that it will get better. And know that you can’t be happy all the time. Life would be stagnant. Knowing happiness and love and sadness and everything in between is what makes us human. It is what makes us alive. You are alive and you are meant to live an incredible life. So go sail across the calm water beneath the sleepy moon. Play with the dew-kissed grass beneath your toes. Dance with silhouettes of ghosts between the bookshelves.
You can have thoughts about the past, but don’t let them control your present. Hope for the future. Your first, second, and third loves may have planted buds around your heart that will always be there, but it is your last love that will help you cultivate an entire garden.
I’m dreaming of the house I read about with its wooden floorboards and dusty ceilings and faded couches and fingerprinted walls and worn-out chairs and empty shelves and unfinished landscapes and vibrant, deep blue fish tank pouring with life. I’m dreaming of the ghost of the girl who lived there, who was happy, who invented her own games using the tiles on the kitchen floor, whose biggest fear was forgetting Rachel the Rabbit on the bed at home before leaving on a plane. And how the hallways seemed to stretch their lazy arms across the ocean as they greeted the morning with a yawn, and the stairs a cascading waterfall to be scaled. Back then, things were easier. People were happier.
I’m spreading apart my fingers,
grains of sand gently kissing the sea goodbye;
all the sleepless nights,
and the long drives,
and the do-nothing days,
and maybe now I will be happy.