❝Some things are too strange and too strong to be coincidences. It's called fate.❞
[in which Luigi left London for New York, to heal his broken heart.]
❝ Cold bones. Yeah, that's my love. She hides away, like a ghost. Does she know that we bleed the same? Don't wanna cry but I break that way. Cold sheets. Oh, where's my love? I am searching high, I'm searching low in the night. Does she know that we bleed the same? Don't wanna cry but I break that way. Did she run away? Did she run away? I don't know. If she ran away, if she ran away, come back home. Just come home. ❞
where's my love by syml
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Luigi • Michelangelo Incognito
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205 days, 5 hours, 45 minutes and 23...something seconds after the breakup.
I HAVE THIS CONSTANT FEAR that I was never going to forget him- my ex. The way his blue-eyes pierced mine or his goofy teeth-gums-and-all grin that always made my heart beat ten times faster. It was September 8, six months after the break up and what sucked, I seemed to never not forget him. At 4 AM when everything was quiet and everyone was asleep I'd still think of him with Calum Scott's Come Back Home playing on the background. In between the lines of Pat and Tiffany in the movie Silver Linings Playbook, he found his way back to my memories to the point where it made me sick to my stomach and I couldn't breathe because I didn't want to love him anymore. It sucked so much because I thought I was forgetting him. And then his once sweet nothings whispered to my ears would come back and I was laying on my bed with tears pouring down my face and my heart burned because of the screams I choked back begging myself to forget him.
Here's a quick luigi-status-update:
Yeah, still brokenhearted.
Nicholas Sparks, Call Me by Your Name, Me Before You, and Tumblr.
A deadly foursome for a brokenhearted gay like me. (Even if deadly,foursome, and gay were words that should never be seen in the same sentence.) My birthday last April did so little to cheer me up. In the past six months, I turned to books, movies and social media to comfort my achy-breaky heart after Ja- the jerk that broke up with me. And after experiencing that foursome, here's my conclusion: I hate clichés, no, actually scratch that, ever since my good for nothing ex-boyfriend decided to drape a banner on the admin building of our high school with the words: LUIGI HART, I'M BREAKING UP WITH YOU. IT WASN'T YOU. IT'S ME.- like a vile totem painted in a mocking blood red acrylic with equally derisive heart-shaped paper cutouts raining all over us; I loathed the word cliché and everything that had to do with it.
Why?
Because my ex ripped my heart out from my chest, dumped into a meat shredder, made into Bolognese meatballs and fed to the sharks.
