Status Updates From Nights Without Night (Fox ...

He shares his guilt over things left undone. The fight for Helmand in Afghanistan. The misery in Syria. The crumbling foundations of our own home. He talks about how there were successes, but at times it felt like they were just there to fix a machine they broke.
There is nowhere his guilt won’t stretch to. It is a blind, enraged minotaur in a maze of his own making.

The things that keep him awake at night are on this boat with us now. They curl up during the day, but hunt in the dark, when his mind softens and turns porous. Now, though, they have more space to roam. They have the open sky and the ink of the ocean and the wood of the docks. They’re not trapped in a room with him, a tangled mass writhing in the shadows. They’re here, but they can breathe now. And so can we.

I had seen the change in increments every time he stayed with me during his leave. The experience had been reminiscent of playing a game of Statues. Every time my back was turned, he would shift. Every time I turned back, he would solidify into stillness, changed into a different form…
it hit me in more than a vague, abstract way that maybe his living body would come back to me, but his soul wouldn’t.

I have never met myself without him…
I wouldn’t have known how to stop it, until I too was the malleable earth, shaped by that feeling. I am who I am because of Isadoro, pushed into a form by the friendship that was solidified in the impressionable years of childhood until being without the feeling was unthinkable. By the time I was sixteen, I knew every angle and curve of this unreciprocated feeling.

crying

Trump being namedropped in a book is so wild, sometimes i forget we live in a reality where the american people elected that guy

This has no right being so beautiful when it’s so sad🥺

“I’ll lay in the dark and feel the exact shape of his absence in my bed. The hollow creature of it is as transparent and still as the silence of the oceanless night.
I’ll close my eyes and miss him.”

This is what people don’t talk about. The simple pleasure of having someone else’s body against yours. All their skin and their rivets and the framework of their bones. The feel of their muscles, of their soft undersides, the dips and rises that make them. The small movements of their bodies, the rise of their chest against yours as you feel them breathe, the shudders of their skin.
Oh, their miles of skin.

I'm utterly in love with these man 🥹🥹

Look at this writing, god I love this sentences out of nowhere 🥹

When I turned to look at him, just to make an asinine comment about the show we were watching drunkenly, and I saw the look on his face. Lost. Fractured. The kind of exhaustion that goes so deep into the cellular composition of your soul that you begin to think curing it would necessitate a transplant of spirit, of personality, of being.

That feeling when you can't wait to start a book but don't, because you don't want it to be finished.