OCEANGHOSTS.


I go by the name of Adam.
1989 is my year.
Earthborn.
My life is worth living.

+36° 59’ 1.21”, -119° 52’ 22.72”
+41° 33’ 28.27”, -71° 17’ 53.36”

-NOTES- -MY MUSIC- -SELF- -PHOTOGRAPHS- -MIXES-

IG: KNIVESINMYEYES

 creeps


The phone rings.
It’s her.
“I was just writing about you.”

And then I wake up.

09.15.14_2342

I let your ghost in last night. I got fed up with the cold drafts she would throw at me through the walls. I couldn’t sleep with the black and white negatives on the back of my eyelids. I thought opening the door would give my soul some peace. It did. Until the fucking sun rose and she faded into the shadows of the window blinds on my ceiling.

(Source: oceanghosts)

09.12.14

09.12.14

I wish I could say
that I was the one to blame,
just so I could keep you
as a perfect dream.
I wish I could say
that you cradled my soul,
that I felt safe,
and that my muse
was looked upon fondly.
But no,
I can’t.
You were just as she was.
Fuck it, who am I kidding?
You were worse.
At least she had the decency
to stop throwing punches.
I saw you
remove her arrows
and snap them before my own eyes,
only to send twice as many back into the scar tissue.
You fucked me good.
Just like you did under those lights
in my own bed
on that rainy February night.

(Source: oceanghosts)

Don’t tell me you miss me and that I can’t seem to get out of your head, and then get engaged a week later. Fuck. You.

You used to smoke your cigarettes
between your
middle
and
ring fingers.
I always wonder if you still do.
I can picture the smoke
twisting and turning in your hands.
I can smell the cloves and
I can hear the sound
of the embers crackling with every drag.
I always wanted to feel like one of your cigarettes
on those hazy mornings of winter.
A reason to get up in the morning.
Something to compliment your spiced coffee.
Something to put your lips on because you liked the taste.
And maybe that’s exactly what I was to you.
A temporary wake up
that was terrible for your health.

(Source: oceanghosts)

Then I started to miss her.
That’s when I knew I was fucked.

I want to know
when you last spoke my name.

(Source: oceanghosts)

I fucking need to stop reading my old notebooks. 

She sat next to me.
Our arms grazed,
and I swore she could feel
the chill that hit my skin.

(Source: oceanghosts)

I once read somewhere
that each time you recall a moment from your past
it’s never remembered exactly the same way
as it was before.
We assume that during moments of
recollection
we go through an organized filing system
and pull out
and put back
these memories whenever we wish.
But it doesn’t work that way.
With every
reminisce
and haunting of her voice,
she fades.
The memory is imperfect.
That’s why I write about her.
It’s like I’m falling from a tree,
and I’m trying to grab onto any branch
in order to keep myself from going blind from the impact of
never seeing her again.

(Source: oceanghosts)

knivesinmyeyes:

knivesinmyeyes

knivesinmyeyes:

August 16th, 2014

I remember that dress.
The blue one with the polka dots
that ended up on my floor.
I remember the texture
under my fingertips
where the fabric
shifted to skin.

My bones are cracking.
I feel it.
Hairline vines of
winter reopen.
But they’re early.
The leaves haven’t fallen.
And the winds are still.
Two years of seasons
brought me names that won’t leave my tongue.
I think I’m snowbound for cold this time around.
I’ll consider this ache
fair warning.

(Source: oceanghosts)

I think you’re still lost,
and I always thought I’d be
the one to save you.
I still feel as if
a fraction of myself will always be
dedicated to carrying you out of your
Hell.

(Source: oceanghosts)