“I never know what love was,
the last time I’ve seen you
your fingers were blackened
both by the smoke and our edges.
People have told me that love
meant that you could not leave them.
(even if they already locked the doors)
Another me spent years in his room
trying to sweep ghosts off his carpet.
I never know what love was.
Maybe it wasn’t this,
wasn’t the warmth of the black sweater
stuffed deep inside the shelves
wasn’t the amount of windows
I’ve broken just to reach you.
When I thought about us,
it doesn’t sound like love,
it doesn’t sound like anything else either.
I can live with or without you,
you can live with or without me.
Not for one second we named it love
but not for one second we have hesitated.
Not for one second.” — i still don’t know what to call us, h.k. (via medvezhkas)