"I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways."

Rumi (via comeupfromthewilderness)

(via melodyhansen)

"I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real."

Hunter S. Thompson (via dondante)

(Source: misswallflower, via dondante-deactivated20140402)

"I’d live on the moon probably except I think I’d miss the moonlight."

Richard Siken  (via align)

(via align)

Michael Morse

veeka:

Try not to fill the emptiness in yourself
by creating one in someone else.

Someone foreign. Some beloved.

One day you’ll leave, and they’ll live in your absence.
In your future present-tense, be a little less gone.

- Michael Morse, from “Void and Compensation”


"I avoid speaking your name in conversation,
throwing it to the air as if it were nothing
more than an assumption of you; it is my last
mode of defence. The last item of clothing
to discard before I realise I’m naked in public.
Because they can hear it in my voice. I know.
Even in that one short syllable that means
everything and nothing; your name is as common
as you are rare. As easy as you are not.
As simple as love should be, but never is.
But when I’m alone, I tie my tongue softly
round the familiar sound, as if pronouncing
with conviction the phonetics of desire
will cause time to pause just long enough
for the earth to hear me naming my loss."

Tania De Rozario, A Hundred Ways To Say Your Name  (via align)

(Source: contramonte, via align)

"I don’t ask you to love me always like this,
but I ask you to remember.
somewhere inside me
there’ll always be the person
I am tonight."

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via beatboxgoesthump)

(Source: quote-book, via stylewednesday)

Golden Horses: Things Are Always Being Destroyed Very Slowly - Stephanie Willis

goldenhorses:

Things are always being destroyed very slowly Yes, even you,

those soft lines forming where you smile or squint
The fruit isn’t left out, but still it rots:
the apple browns and sours, loses crispness
The fallen leaves lose crispness, too, from the days of rain
forever in front of us now…

"Oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much."

Frank O’Hara  (via atomiclanterns)

Full poem

(Source: fleurishes, via loveyourchaos)

Richard Siken, “Detail of the Woods”

poetryeater:

I looked at all the trees and didn’t know what to do.

A box made out of leaves.
What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.
I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon.

From the landscape: a sense of scale.
From the dead: a sense of scale.

I turned my back on the story. I sense of superiority.
Everything casts a shadow.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything. 

Songs from the House of Death or How to Make it Through to the End of a Relationship - Joy Harjo


1. From the house of death there is rain. From rain is flood and flowers. And flowers emerge through the ruins of those who left behind stores of corn and dishes, turquoise and bruises from the passion of fierce love.

2. I run my tongue over the skeleton jutting from my jaw. I taste the grit of heartbreak.

3. The procession of spirits who walk out of their bodies is ongoing. Just as the procession of those who have loved us will go about their business of making a new house with someone else who smells like the dust of a strange country.

4. The weight of rain is unbearable to the sky eventually. Just as desire will burn a hole through the sky and fall to earth. 

5. I was surprised by the sweet embrace of the perfume of desert flowers after the rain, though after all these seasons I shouldn’t be surprised.

6. All cities will be built and then destroyed. We built too near the house of the gods of lightning, too close to the edge of a century. What could I expect, my bittersweet?

7. Even death who is the chief of everything on this earth (all undertakings, all matters of human form) will wash his hands, stop to rest under the cottonwood before taking you from me on the back of his horse.

8. Nothing I can sing will bring you back. Not the songs of a hundred horses running until they become wind. Not the personal song of the rain who makes love to the earth.

9. I will never forget you. Your nakedness haunts me in the dawn when I can not distinguish your flushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands. The smell of chaos lingers in the clothes you left behind. I hold you there.