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@018-3l
“and you are ethereal nostalgia made flesh whispers of the summer sun on your skin, moons in your eyes, freckles made from light, if the world does not revolve around you, you shall make it so.”
— never let anyone tell you otherwise | wt.
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if i could taste the wonder on your lips could you perhaps taste the desperation on mine?
when you take your eyes off the horizon (waiting and waiting and waiting for something i could never give) do you see that i’m waiting just as well?
waiting for the waves that will crash and sweep you away but will only pull me under
waiting for the lines of ocean, earth, and sky to blur for you while the lines between us only grow clearer
waiting for the distant whistle of the curtains falling for us and for you to be bigger than i could ever possibly hold
if i could taste the wonder on your lips i could also feel that you’re just waiting to go
— you taste like wanderlust | wt.
[text ID:
I do think that love is very often about sacrifice. I mean sacrifice as in choosing, as in effort. I mean choosing as in the allocation of time, and energy, and the making of space and the setting aside of prejudices and the keeping of an open mind. I mean leaving the last half-slice of cake in the fridge; working late into Thursday evening to spend Friday evening together; picking them up at the train station even though they’ve long memorised the route to your flat. Even when it is a sacrifice happily made, a choice readily chosen, it is still the giving up of one life in favour of another. And I think it’s important to recognise that. I could be living a different life but I am choosing to live a life with you. It is a sacrifice. The stakes are that high. And I do it anyway. I do it because it’s you. I do it because I love you.
Sue Zhao
/ end ID]
Angels Adoring the Heart of Jesus - Vincent López Portaña (detail) // Elizabeth I as a Princess - attributed to William Scrots (detail) // The Relief of Genoa by the Marquis of Santa Cruz - Antonio de Pereda (detail) // Saint Cecilia - Cesare Dandini (detail) // King - Florence + the Machine
Devotion
I loved you just like I worship a god. I am ready to commit... Or so I thought. I was for you... Or so I thought. The idea of love is warm, as we have witnessed together with our palms. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about anticipatory grief. I love you so much that I know losing you will devastate me, but I still let you go. I haven't lost you yet, for you were still there, drifting away. But I miss you already. Hence, some parts of me are persuaded that you're not in love with me. You just love the way I always make you feel. It's as if I were the center of your world. No, you made me your world, knowing that the time was wrong. It will always be wrong. For us. This is the last time I beg for devotion. I don't want to be a saint. I don't want to be worshipped and expected to be innocent and pure by a devotee: you.
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“She didn’t need to be saved. She needed to be found and appreciated for exactly who she was.”
— j. iron word
Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry
art + lemony snicket
x x x x x
as I grow up I realize more & more that I suppress parts of myself: around strangers & around people, even those who I should trust, my viewpoint is one of fellowness in silence, seen as mere calm; strange analysis of the internal suppression rooted in the child, awareness of anger being my reaction to an inner suppression.
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My only wish for you is that, there will be someone whose hands are yours to hold, they say it is loyalty, so, thank your hands to be able to take that other hand and place it on yours, where every line on your palms and the shape of it, even the spaces in between aligns and matches perfectly, and knowing the warmth while you touch it, that same warmth of love you feel for this person, I guess, sometimes, nobody knows how exactly a hand can make up for something other than words or phrases, but all I can put up in my mind is, that a hand is something what God has created artistically, bone by bone, jointly, and to teach you to pray, to say hello, even to humble yourself, or pat someone's back to keep doing their best, what a hand can do is also to give hope and care for because it can make gestures of hug, so thank you hand for having part of me, without you, my voice will not seem so clear for everyone else.
— Chuck Akot, Grazie mano
“And in the silence I suddenly understood the many ways a person can die but still be alive.”
— Carmen Rodrigues; 34 Pieces of You
And if someday
the uncertainty of this world
becomes too overwhelming,
I hope you remember that
some mysteries aren’t
meant to be
solved.
They’re meant
to be
lived.
“Sometimes you meet someone you think is going to be a bigger part of your life than they actually end up being. And sometimes a person you think you’ll never see again becomes someone you can’t live without. The point is the universe has a funny way of throwing things together and in the end it’s not always up to you.”
—
exchange
[text ID:
we walked back to the car after buying apples and noodles and butter and i asked my dad if he ever thought about how beautiful grocery store parking lots are at dusk. he was incredulous. confused. no, he said, i guess that’s why you’re the poet. poetry. or, treasuring the space between places. not only to say that two things are alike (that evening the neon lights reflected on the concrete were like a bowl of fruit and the round, fat moon through the pinkish clouds was like a blushing cheek) but that these ordinary occurrences of light and moon are worth our words at all. the handles of plastic grocery bags dug in at my elbows, pennies stuck to my palm. the walk from the store to the car had nothing to give me, but it had everything to show me.
/end text ID.]
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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“I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
nightmare remaining static, reality counterpoised by misuse, subsumed by tomorrow's reverence, an emerald goddess: deity & diva, transformed by an aura of eros, greek gold, great hallways of italian arrangement, backlit moonlight, season stain with cyclical rearrangement, tears & cries; murmured recollections, spoken between the silence.
memoirs inked & moments etched, bound by brilliance, soliloquies of solutions, taken alone in glacial solidarity, disintegration into dissolution, these words, inner decay, tomorrow's tears over yesterday's years, all remaining still: many cold nights of moonlight, seasons & stains; revolution.
