I wanted you to tell me that you were sorry; that you would miss our long drives, playing our favorite songs too loud, watching old movies, talking about our favorite authors, laughing at the smallest of things, staying up too late. I wanted you to tell me that you would miss holding my hand and the feel of my heart beating against your own. I wanted you to tell me all of these things, but you didn’t. And I still wonder if you think about me. If you think about my skin, my hair, the way I used to smile when I saw your face. I don’t think you do, but I still like to wonder.
— a.p., Do You Wonder About Me? (via sunst0ne)
She is not “my girl.”
She belongs to herself. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night.
How much more blessed can I be?
— Avraham Chaim, Thoughts after The Alchemist (via barbieandken)