(Source: whirra, via ausoir)

(Source: me-and-my-secret, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

tinyaquarium:

You were perfect, with your perfect desires and your perfect decisions. When we met, it was perfect. All the days and dates after the first were perfect. Even our break-up was perfect. You joked that even the clouds did not dare ruin our break-up day. I laughed at your last joke. In your mind, I was perfect. “You’re staring,” I’d said. “I’m just smiling,” you’d said. In your mind, I was perfect for your timetabled, temp-controlled, manicured-lawn life. I liked you because you stared and just smiled. I’d felt your lashes on my skin, and your teeth on my fingers, on perfectly cloudless days. When you stared and just smiled, you were perfect. But we weren’t perfection. The one cloud, your closing joke, was that I didn’t stare and just smile back.

(This Swiss boy is currently doing his perfect Swiss banking in Switzerland.)

the ex boyfriend series

(Source: nicotortorella, via ausoir)

James Dean and Natalie Wood on the set of Rebel Without a Cause, 1955.

(Source: jamesdeandaily, via crimical)

tinyaquarium:

People didn’t understand us. People were jealous. You, with your non-specific gender fluidity wrapped in a leather jacket. Me, with my cheap attitude and anti-bullshit accent. You, with your disapproval of cigarettes. Me, with my drug pushing and your approval of that. When the volcano almost erupted, we dragged ourselves out and watched the ashes make a mess. You told me your secrets, and I told you lazy lies. Maybe we should’ve married. Maybe the volcano should have erupted, while we were eating rum and raisin ice cream. “I can be your first husband.” My visa was up and you could have been my first husband, rum and raisins and all. My visa was up and so many people were jealous, leather jacket and all. “No, asshole.” In my head, you were my second husband, and I was your first wife.

(This Colombian boy is currently in Istanbul, doing his pansexual thing.)

the ex boyfriend series

(via riverphoenixblog)