I don’t miss you but I remember you.
Occasionally, your name rolls off the tip of my tongue. Occasionally, it leaves my mouth through my parted lips and everyone seems to be having a hard time understanding why it does.

I am still allowed to pronounce your name because we held hands for too long. We walked upon sidewalks together and now I walk them alone. I kissed you at every corner and at every stoplight. We sat across from each other at tables in small coffee shops. In fact, I don’t think there is one single coffee shop that we didn’t visit together. You tore daffodils from the ground beneath your feet and you placed them between the knots in my hair.

So I am still allowed to pronounce your name because I loved you enough. I know I did. I let you write your name on the insides of my wrist. I let you leave your fingerprints and most of all, your footsteps.

I am allowed to remember you.
But that has never meant, I miss you.

I’m allowed to remember you for goodness sake // Abagail Pacheco (via thewordsyouneverunderstood)

(via thewaitingplace)

When people fight you to shut you up about a topic like race—and sexism, it means that you have stumbled upon the cultural silence that must be patrolled in order to maintain hegemony.

Junot Díaz (via ethiopienne)

(via aboveanabyss)

You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.

Azar NafisiReading Lolita in Tehran (via psych-facts)

(via aboveanabyss)