David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary
ethereal, adj. — You leaned your head into mine, and I leaned my head into yours. Dancing cheek to cheek. Revolving slowly, eyes closed, heartbeat measure, nature’s hum. It lasted the length of an old song, and then we stopped, kissed, and my heart stayed there, just like that.
— David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary (via pavorst)
Even when I detach, I care. You can be separate from a thing and still care about it. If I wanted to detach completely, I would move my body away. I would stop the conversation midsentence. I would leave the bed. Instead, I hover over it for a second. I glance off in another direction. But I always glance back at you.
— David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary (via maddierose)
ardent, adj.
It was after sex, when there was still heat and mostly breathing, when there was still touch and mostly thought… it was as if the whole world could be reduced to the sound of a single string being played, and the only thing this sound could make me think of was you. Sometimes desire is air; sometimes desire is liquid. And every now and then, when everything else is air and liquid, desire solidifies, and the body is the magnet that draws its weight.
It was after sex, when there was still heat and mostly breathing, when there was still touch and mostly thought… it was as if the whole world could be reduced to the sound of a single string being played, and the only thing this sound could make me think of was you. Sometimes desire is air; sometimes desire is liquid. And every now and then, when everything else is air and liquid, desire solidifies, and the body is the magnet that draws its weight.
— David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary
We said we’d keep in touch. But touch is not something you can keep; as soon as it’s gone, it’s gone. We should have said we’d keep in words, because they are all we can string between us—words on a telephone line, words appearing on a screen.
— David Levithan, Breaking and Entering (via llowerr)
abstraction, n.
Love is one kind of abstraction. And then there are those nights when I sleep alone, when I curl into a pillow that isn’t you, when I hear the tiptoe sounds that aren’t yours. It’s not as if I can conjure you there completely. I must embrace the idea of you instead.
Love is one kind of abstraction. And then there are those nights when I sleep alone, when I curl into a pillow that isn’t you, when I hear the tiptoe sounds that aren’t yours. It’s not as if I can conjure you there completely. I must embrace the idea of you instead.
— David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary
indelible, adj.
That first night, you took your finger and pointed to the top of my head, then traced a line between my eyes, down my nose, over my lips, my chin, my neck, to the center of my chest. It was so surprising, I knew I would never mimic it. That one gesture would be yours forever.
That first night, you took your finger and pointed to the top of my head, then traced a line between my eyes, down my nose, over my lips, my chin, my neck, to the center of my chest. It was so surprising, I knew I would never mimic it. That one gesture would be yours forever.
— David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary (via xxxhellomaria)
Contiguous, adj.
“When I was a kid, I had this puzzle with all fifty states on it—you know, the kind where you have to fit them all together. And one day I got it in my head that California and Nevada are in love. I told my mom, and she had no idea what I was talking about. I ran and got those two pieces and showed it to her—California and Nevada, completely in love. So a lot of the time, when we’re like this—” My ankles against the backs of your ankles, my knees fitting into the backs of your knees, my thighs on the backs of your legs, my stomach against your back, my chin folding into your neck— “I can’t help but think about California and Nevada, and how we’re a lot like them. If someone were drawing us above as a map. That’s what we’d look like; that’s how we are.”
For a moment, you were quiet. And then you nestled in and whispered, “Contiguous.” And I knew you understood.
“When I was a kid, I had this puzzle with all fifty states on it—you know, the kind where you have to fit them all together. And one day I got it in my head that California and Nevada are in love. I told my mom, and she had no idea what I was talking about. I ran and got those two pieces and showed it to her—California and Nevada, completely in love. So a lot of the time, when we’re like this—” My ankles against the backs of your ankles, my knees fitting into the backs of your knees, my thighs on the backs of your legs, my stomach against your back, my chin folding into your neck— “I can’t help but think about California and Nevada, and how we’re a lot like them. If someone were drawing us above as a map. That’s what we’d look like; that’s how we are.”
For a moment, you were quiet. And then you nestled in and whispered, “Contiguous.” And I knew you understood.
— David Levithan, A Lover’s Dictionary
I want my own books to have their own shelves,” you said, and that’s how I knew it would be okay to live together.
— David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary
I have no idea how he knows when I need him. We can go weeks without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tell me my moods are
azure
indigo
cerulean
cobalt
periwinkle
and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky.
He brings the sun.
azure
indigo
cerulean
cobalt
periwinkle
and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky.
He brings the sun.
— David Levithan, The Realm of Possibility
