Hi! I'm Noelle. :D
Ask me anything
I'm a 17-year old who has an incurable love for words.
Forever a reader and sometimes, a writer.
I slip in again.
I see the sun’s rays playfully peek behind the curtains. I try to stand up but my feet wobble. Out of instinct, I grab the nearest object which was a chair. Atop it lay his jacket. I shut my eyes. I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.
Only I couldn’t.
I HAVE AN ADMISSION EXAM TOMORROW AND I AM LISTENING TO TOM HIDDLES AND I REGRET NOTHING.
Tom Hiddleston reading Shakespeare Sonnet 130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
I hit the intersections where your shoulders meet your neck, passing through the car wrecks of ex-boyfriends who parallel parked on the dead ends. and I just hope your skin lends me an extra mile so I can slow down, take a while to admire the landscape, drape my arm over your being there. this time when it comes to your skin, I’m a drunk driver trying to walk a straight line.
I’ve been pulled over so much that your simple touch is enough to make me assume the position - wishing I could stay there, where your hand searches my body for contraband that could land me in the jail of your ribcage. because road rage is a sickness and my medicine is your skin. I could spend the rest of my life circling the same block, wondering where does the world hide its private stock of people like you. Pulse, Shane Koyczan (via clavicola)
n. the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste.
If each encounter left a wound on your skin, then the memory of our meeting must be a faint, untraceable scar on your back.