#sorry for being a loser (directioner and swiftie)

[candlelightkiss]

They saw us as reckless, but we called ourselves poets. Our scraped knees relay stories of nights past nine, flourishing beneath the moonlight. The scabs on our palms scream and sting when the paper meets the flesh, but the words trail seamlessly, almost desperately, into its pages. Worn lines on our cheeks from sunken smiles were not a testament of exhaustion, but excitement.

An idylist craves the ventures that tell its tales. So we ran. We carried the burdens through fire and water, for our love. We foraged through the piles of dried leaves littered on the pavement.

"Don't let go of this hand," and we drove in headfirst, fearless. Because at least we know that when the night is coming down on us, we will find a way through the dark.