I don’t ever go in the bathroom and cry, but I think about how I could if I really had to and that takes the edge off. My husband is so sweet, cutting onions as he says, “Let’s just move to California. Or let’s just move to Ohio. Or Spokane. Let’s pack the car for Spokane.” He’s trying to make up for a time when he didn’t love me this much, but it’s enough and it’s made up. I’m just afraid we’ll get wherever and wherever will be here again. “I don’t think it will work,” I say. “Of course it won’t work,” he says. “You’re trying to outrun death. But the ocean, the boxes, the little fears of starting, it will be years before you feel it again.” He means home’s hot breath on the back of our necks. “This is what people do?” I ask, wiping my eye quick, so our five-year-old, skipping through the kitchen doesn’t see. “It’s one of the things they do,” he says. — Kathryn Nuernberger, from “Letter Home,” published in 32 Poems

I think next thursday is gonna be the best day of my entire life tbh

reblog for next thursday to be the best day of your life

I didn’t fall in love. I fell through it: Came out the other side moments later, hands full of matter, waking up from the dream of a bullet tearing through the middle of my body. —Sarah Manguso, from “Love Letter (Clouds),” Siste Viator (Four Way Books, 2006)