.

to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die

There is a particular kind of nakedness that happens not in the removing of clothes, but in the unwrapping of thoughts—when someone leans across the table, wine forgotten, to ask “But what do you really believe about the soul?” with the intensity others reserve for declarations of love. This is my own form of intimacy: the meeting of two minds barefoot in the territory of ideas, where every exchanged thought is both confession and caress.

We’ve been taught to eroticize the body but sterilize the intellect, as if the most vulnerable thing one can offer isn’t their flesh but their narratives—the half-formed theories whispered at night, the dog-eared passages of novels that shaped your inner world, the way your hands move when you’re trying to shape an image into the language of sight. To be understood in one’s thinking is a deeper penetration than any physical act; to have your metaphors cherished is a more profound surrender.

The ancients knew this. Socrates tracing concepts on Alcibiades’ skin with his words. Abelard and Héloïse weaving theology into their lovemaking. That night we spent passing Shire and Wynter’s back and forth like kisses, our fingers brushing over annotated margins—weren’t we, in our way, making love? The mind, after all, has its own erogenous zones: the place behind the ear that heats when someone dismantles your argument only to rebuild it better, the shiver when they quote your own forgotten words back to you.

Let others reduce intimacy to bodies. We’ll take the tremble in a voice when explaining Kant’s sublime, the gasp of recognition when Venn diagrams of belief overlap, the afterglow that lingers when two people have thought something new into existence between them. This is how philosophers love: with parentheses left open for the other to complete, with footnotes that say “See also: your eyes when you’re about to understand.”

I want a love that echoes in the passage of time. That takes notes in the margins of my silences, memorizes the cadence of my quiet. That lingers not for the warmth of my body, but for the architecture of my thoughts—the labyrinthine halls of very being, dimly lit by longing, waiting to be known.

Let us meet, not in the frenzy of skin on skin, but in the cathedral of our minds—where your philosophy touches mine like prayer, where we undress one another not with fingers, but with words and hopes and the intangible extractions of our unsaid exploits.

Is it not the most sacred act, to be read deeply?

I do not want possession—I want presence. Your eyes on me like a scholar, your voice in conversation like candlelight.

Soft.

Careful.

Eternally curious.

if only the young were trees by mahmoud darwish

the meaning of birds by charles smith

song of the open road by walt whitman

at the kitchen sink by camille a. balla

every day as a wide field, every page by naomi shihab nye

feeding the worms by danusha lameris

still by marc alan di martino

do stones feel by mary oliver

you are who I love by aracelis girmay

the patience of ordinary things by pat schneider

comfort by jennifer k. sweeney

mowing by ada limón

nights in the neighborhood by linda gregg

valentine for enest mann by naomi shihab nye

there are birds here by jamaal may

winter poem by nikki giovanni

I’m feeling fabulous possibly too much so but I love it by mary oliver

shoulders by naomi shihab nye

entrance by rainer maria rilke

what I carried by maggie smith

like a small cafe by mahmoud darwish

another day by greg kuzma

keeping things whole by mark strand

meditations in an emergency by cameron awkward - rich

dead stars by ada limón

to the young who want to die by gwendolyn brooks

the world has need of you ellen bass

you reading this be ready by william stanford

in the country of resurrection by ada limón

the round by stanley kunitz

notes on waiting for the dog to find the perfect place to take a shit while morning cuts through the sky, fresh from another darkness by hanif abdurraqib

late summer after a panic attack by ada limón

on a train by wendy cope

good day by kait rokowski

dudes we did not go through the hassle of getting these fake ids for this jukebox to not have any springsteen by hanif abdurraqib

the cats will know by cesare pavese

What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum.

Your beauty is still captivating, but what for now.

Aur bhi dukh hain zamane mei mohabbat ke siwa.

There’s more aches in the world besides love.

Rahatein aur bhi hain vasl ki rahat ke siwa.

More comforts than the comfort of the day of reunion.

Mujhse pehli si mohabbat mere mehboob na maang.

My love, don’t ask me for the love I once had for you.

کوئی بھی حیلۂ تسکیں نہیں اور آس بہت ہے

امید یار نظر کا مزاج درد کا رنگ

تم آج کچھ بھی نہ پوچھو کہ دل اداس بہت ہے

Na deed hai na sukhan, ab na harf hai na payaam Koi bhi heela-e-taskeen nahi or aas bohat hai Umeed-e-yaar, nazar ka mizaaj, dard ka rang Tum aaj kuch bhi na pucho k dil udaas bohat hai

―Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Neither sight remains nor literature, neither alphabets remain nor a message

No excuse for relief and still, there remains a hope

Hope to meet my friend, those eyes, the evolution of that pain

let me see you and stay

1. Yes, there is a place where someone loves you both before and after they learn what you are.

2. love is insane you feel like you’re always subtly asking “do you still love me even though i’m flawed” and the answer just keeps being yes

3. a stylized painting of two people hugging under a rainstorm as angels shield them with their wings

4. What I want is, “Don’t be afraid, there is no shame. Let me see you, and be seen. Let me see you and stay.” What I want is, “Oh, you are wretched and glorious and so am I. Let’s chase the sun while it still burns for us.”

5. Then I realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before asking someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.

6. Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.

7. I don’t want your love unless you know that i am repulsive, and love me even as you know it.

8. In this space right here that we have made for each other, you can say anything and I will not abandon you. Unwrap the worst things you have done. Watch me hold them up to the light and not even flinch. 

9. Bring me to your house / Tell me, "Sorry for the mess", hey, I don't mind / You're talking in your sleep, out of time / Well, you still make sense to me, your mess is mine

10. A photo of a house with a green garden and overgrown roses over which are the lyrics “I will wash your hair at night / and dry it off with care / I will see your body bare / and still I will live here”

11. “If you are intolerable, let me be the one to tolerate you,” I said, and then I kissed her and tasted the lemon juice on her lips.

12. People always think we look for love at our lowest to distract us. I am convinced we do it because we want someone to look us in the eye, to look our ugly in the eye and still choose us. I didn't want a distraction, I wanted you to see a mess and still find me worthy of love, to tell me that you could still love me anyway. 

“The cold came on with a new found intensity and you pressed your warm body against me / And I loved you so much it was making me sick”

A collage of a black and white photograph of a woman holding a bouquet of flowers, with words on top reading “You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it”. There are also stars placed on top.

“I tried to be good / Am I no good? / Am I no good? / Am I no good? / With my memory restricted to a polaroid in evidence / I just wanted to be yours / Can I be yours? / Can I be yours? / Can I be yours? / If I’m turning in your stomach and I’m making you feel sick”

“I tried to eat like your girlfriend / Just tea, in the night I’d end up / Too hungry to sleep / So lying awake, I would follow the aching inside / I would find / It’s for you won’t be mine”

“Medea: Tell me, how does it feel with my teeth in your heart?”