Drabble Quotes

You weren’t made of magic, and you didn’t have galaxies in your eyes. You were just a boy with a crooked smile who told me I was beautiful. Now, you’re a fleeting memory–nothing more than a whisper in the wind.

(338/365) by (DS) 

Drabble #79 – its skin of gristle (this isolate)

It’s a strange kind of reverence that comes with downing the night’s heartbreaks in the eve of winter. The air cold and dry, I watch you pack your luggage as I unzip mine. Bite my lip, act like the silence isn’t choking me. Your suitcase with the broken wheel drags by your side, like a dead body, heavy with memories and life lost. I toss in a piece of my heart just before the click of the lock. Do you know what it’s like, feeling like an echo? You were always the type who had a lot to say and no one ever knew what was going to come out of your mouth next. Today, you didn’t say a word, and I’m astonished by how thoroughly we have broken each other.

Drabble #77 – Fathoms Below

I know what it’s like to come home to everything being scattered and smashed, floor dirty with the heavy, invasive tread of strangers. It’s like the inside of my own head. The man who came to see me afterwards mentioned a lot about the pain, the grief, the wanting to blame someone and rage against the unfairness of it all. But what the man hadn’t mentioned was how I suddenly feel like I’m in on the joke. It’s hard to be the comic relief when no one wants to laugh at you anymore. And, god, isn’t that some game-changing irony. But that conversation’s already spoken for. It’s done, even if no one wants it to be. They all want to keep bringing it up, want some kind of conclusion, want everything to be okay, if I can just talk it out. But we all want a bunch of things we can’t have, and sometimes being okay isn’t what someone needs. They want a reason, a perpetrator, a motive, and more often than not you don’t get that. You just get a broken home; glass to clean up, furniture to replace, new memories to make.

Drabble #71 – Plum Tea

A soft, welcome laugh, you brush my hand. The shimmery oil rubbed into your skin glints in the light, catches the spot where you touched me. The grasshoppers are a low, distinct hum that fills the empty spaces lulling between topics. Before I know it, you are standing to refill a glass I hadn’t noticed I was drinking. I keep losing pockets of time. You brush my hand, seated again, and more fractures of light catch my eye where your fingers are peeking from the folds of your sleeve. Eyes like gems look back at me, speckled with laughter and glowing in the mid-summer heat. My breath stutters to a halt.

Drabble #55 – I'mma give you chills harmonizing to Otis, Isley, Marvin.

I am stopping to smell the flowers today and you are only ever kissed by men with shadowed eyes. We do not go to the market on cloudless days; the citrus is cheaper when it rains. I count coins, you count street corners, and we wonder how we managed to get here. I believe we are both slowly growing roots, despite the fact that nothing, not even our clothes, has ever fit us quite right. As always, we won’t leave until we have to, until you fall too quickly and scare yourself out of the memories you’ve made. It never fails to amaze me how recklessly naïve you live yet how astoundingly shy you become when faced with commitment. But that’s okay, I do not question you. Today we are getting ice cream on the pier and I know that, for now, this is enough.

Drabble #63 – our lips, darling, they're so disarming

There are times when you look at me like my body is unlike your own, like I hold secrets in my chest that you want to discover, like the color of my eyes is entirely new to you, like my hands and my arms and my waist are all a thing of beauty and should be worshipped and studied and appreciated. When you do, my stomach makes knots and I feel almost ill with it, like I’ve handed you my insides and asked you to take care of them. You keep taking my promises, cradling them to your chest, and I never see them again. You smile, too many teeth, all of them sharp, and I am not afraid. It should hurt, probably. But maybe I’m immune.

She tells me to pretend she’s not there, to just talk. She says I can do that, I’m good at talking. I don’t want to talk to her. She says that’s okay, she knows. That’s why she wants me to pretend she isn’t there. If I don’t want her to help, the least she can do is listen. There’s a point she trying to get to, something she’s trying to get me to say, but I’m good at talking and talking and talking before the person I’m talking to realizes that I haven’t really said anything at all. Going unnoticed. I ignore her questions. She can tell. She notices. I ask if she can keep a secret, and she’s says yes, of course, that’s her whole job. But she’s lying, there are lots of situations that permit her to not actually keep a secret. I tell her this, that if I said I wanted to harm myself she would be well within her rights to repeat it to my parents. She sits back, as though I surprised her, asks if I want to harm myself, but I know better. I say that she can’t tell anyone, not a soul, that’s what keeping a secret entails. She asks about my friends, and not even them. Especially not them. I say that she thinks I don’t care about them. She says I don’t trust them, and that’s not the same thing. She’s right, it absolutely isn’t. I look out the window at the sky. It’s one of those weird mornings where you can still sort of see the moon. I comment on it. She thanks me, and leaves. She thinks about negative space in art. It reminds her of me, and how I only ever fill myself with what people want to see. It’s easy to forget about the negative space, and miss seeing the whole picture entirely. She wonders what angle she isn’t getting, what facet of the story isn’t visible to her. She wonders about all of the secrets I’m not telling, if she’s looking in the wrong places for them, and she supposes that would make as much sense as anything.


When we were younger, your hair was as wild as the tangled tree
branches in the forest. Your heart held back the cage of your
ribs, you were a wild child with a heart that would have ran out
to any girl that could try to tame a hurricane. Sometimes. in 
daydreams that was only just a foolish dream, I dreamt of our
days together as we grow old. You killed my dreams.

Loving a hurricane created a war torn in my heart with the thorns
wrapped around. You killed me. Maybe, it was expected to love some
-body as reckless, as you. In ways, I could have been a lost astronaut in
space looking fora way home to your arms. I loved your wild heart
and I assumed I could've tamed it. When we were younger, I kept my
heart on my sleeve so you noticed me easily, as we grown up you
seen the scars on my sleeves so you noticed my pain.

The disaster created left after a warzone, you kept me in the back of your
mind as if I was a secret to never be told. I was so close to your heart, those
words I yearned to hear, turned to run off your tongue, unhinged jaws of 
the cliffs of the mountains; I was good to you. Through the town, it was
never made out of our paper memories, it was just the string that held us
together is made out of our memories. I found myself tangled through the
wild branches of the forest of your own secrets, searching for the real you.


"Are you okay?" I asked for the millionth time, to my
friend. "Yes, I am fine," my friend says in annoyance.
Maybe, I have said, are you okay? or are you fine? too
many times, that it began to make itself a habit. Habits
can be the worse things, sometimes it can be the good

things in your life that made you successful, I found my-
self asking day by day, every day lately; if my friend was
okay because, not everyone is okay. I came to realize that,
maybe I asked constantly to my friends and family, because
I had no one when I was in the dark times, no one asked if
I was okay. I didn't want people to feel the same as I did.

He stands in front of her, smiling even if he had the amount of doubt in him. 
“I lo-I had a good night, with you,” he said to her. She gave him an eyes closed,
smile, her dark eyelashes fluttered back open; “I had a good night too.”
He couldn’t tell her, he loved her; so he’ll keep it stuck on his tongue like sleep-
ing lambs, ready to run out like words when he does confess.
Because, love has to do with a lot of falling for; and she, herself is afraid of 
heights. She was a beautiful mystery, kept things inside of her that no one
could ever understand but he, is afraid of failing like the others. “I..I love you.”
And if  loving her would mean dying for him, so be it. He already fell once she said hello.
And we humans have millions of fears, but for him loving her was one of them


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