Somehow I’ve become very cautious. When I put on a raincoat, I put on sunglasses too. Who knows when it will rain, or when it will turn out sunny?
Unable to sleep,Peregrine (via weaverofstars)
I watch the crescent moon rise.
She gathers her heart
in the darkness and leans back,
rocking in the empty sky.
You fit the world in your mouth and I’m jealous of all the cobweb space. I scour the neighborhood picking up your lost hairpins, smell last night in your hair. It’s a good thing, you never forgetting my waist. Maybe I’m in love or maybe I’m not in love or maybe I’ve tasted love before and haven’t brushed my teeth in a while, but you look so good in that dress I want to bake you a pie. In one of these sentences I say something important. This is what I’m going to do: touch your hips with my tongue, build you a nest out of pillowcases. We are always falling into the softness of photosynthesis. The most important part of last night is making it happen again. I was never good at math but I’m adding up the miles to your hips. Come over, I want to sober up inside you."I Will Take My Pants Off While You Videotape The Moon," Gregory Sherl
Someone once told me that loveGregory Sherl, excerpt from What Happened With the Last One (via grammatolatry)
is winning the lottery
but losing the ticket.
every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end ~
They will say I smoked cigarettes and marijuana, cursed hoarse as a crow in all my languages, and loved morphine and Demerol and tequila and pulque, women and men. I will shrug my illusion of shoulders and answer that I am a water woman, not a vessel, not something you can sail or charter. I am instead the tributary, the river, the fluid source, and the sea itself. I am all her rainy implications. And what do you, with your rusted compass, know of love?The Incantation of Frida K, Kate Braverman
We’re all kind of weird and twisted and drowning.Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via rauchwolken)
Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.
Rainer Maria Rilke (December 4, 1875 – December 29, 1926), in Letters to a Young Poet
Song: “Love Is No Big Truth” by Kings of Convenience