fran

Maybe I’ll press my heart like a flower between the pages of your favourite book so you can take it with you wherever you go.

Desire is shown through the hands and yearning is worn in the eyes. The mouth is only good for two things: kisses and lies. That’s why I call you a friend even as my eyes dip to your lips, as my hands cling to your hips.

You trip on curiosity before you fall in love. Sometimes you stumble into friendship or slip on desire. It’s an accident, really; love is what happens when someone steals all of your attention. A fall is inevitable when you don’t mind your step.

This is what it’s like to love after you’ve had your heart broken. The cracks help the light shine through.

I think I have missed you longer than I have known you and that I will love you longer than I will have you. The sky is my witness: the moon has listened to me wax poetic about us two; Saturn wears the ring I saved for you.

@kellmareshh 😘😘

@galacticidiots happy new year!! 🫶🏽❤️

Happy new year. I hope it’s a fun one. I hope you run out of problems but never out of joy. I hope your cup is always full and your head is always light. I hope you wear out your heart by loving everything an unreasonable amount.

No flirting. I’ll just argue my point until you kiss me to shut me up.

Let’s try. Let’s give it a chance to fail before we deem it doomed. Let’s let it sting, let it break us. I would rather fall on a knife held by your hands than fall into the arms of anyone else.

@yoonieera 🤍

@galacticidiots Happy new year Fran💘🎀

I stutter, sometimes, when you come near me. It’s a heart hiccup; mine always misbehaves when you walk past, when you look my way, when your fingers accidentally brush against my knee.

These would be the sort of keys we’d use if our hearts were made of clockwork and we had to wind them up every night. I’d give you mine and trust you’d do it right.

The day starts with you making coffee in the kitchen and me walking in wearing the shirt you bought knowing I’d end up stealing it. ‘That’s mine,’ you say, lips curled into a smile. I nod, but I don’t mean the shirt. You pull me into your arms, proving the point.

I went for a walk among trees that are far older than me and here’s what I learned: To be loved is to be seen for you are and heard without having to speak.

I’m drawn to you and my hands ache to touch; don’t mind my anxious fingers and the way they reach for any part of you they can have, own. I’m drawn to you and my heart aches to love; don’t mind my restless soul and its constant desire to make you my home.

‘You always know which of my buttons to push,’ you say, and it’s half-joke, half-accusation. ‘To be known is to be loved,’ I reply, anticipating the way you will roll your eyes.

Maybe seashells are little pieces of broken mermaid hearts and that’s why you can hear the ocean when you bring them to your ears

Separation anxiety is just what happens when people get too used to sharing a heart; they can’t stand to be more than a few feet apart.

It’s late and my eyes are tired but you’re still talking, a little sleepy, sharing precious pieces of yourself. It’s late but I won’t let myself fall asleep; it’s the only fall I can help. The other one happened long ago. (My heart still has the bruises to prove it.)

Sometimes loving feels like holding my breath. I know it’ll kill me eventually but I do it anyway. I have a heart and I’ll use it until I use it all up.