"There is an ocean between
The first time I said ‘I love you’
And the last time I meant it.
I left that word buried
In the sand of a shoreline I’ve never seen
And took some time for myself:
To turn my life into a book
That didn’t read like unfinished emails
And grocery lists full of all your favorite foods.
I spent days
Scrubbing your name out of the grout
That lines the bathtub,
Shaking your dust out of my shoes,
Relearning how to spell my name
Without the letters tangled on your tongue.
It must have been
Of waking up on your side of the bed,
And wondering where all this empty space came from.
I hope my teeth
Came tumbling out of your suitcase
The first time you said my name
To a friend in passing.
I hope I hung on like a remora
Until kissing her felt too much like
Sleepwalking down the stairs of our old apartment.
I hope bad dreams sent you out
To the beach
With a shovel and a good bottle of wine,
Digging through saltwater for proof
I ever even touched you.
While you go looking for that word,
I will be at home
In an apartment that looks nothing like you.
Drinking hot tea that tastes more like love
Than your mouth ever did.
And when you call at four in the morning,
Hands as empty as the bottle by your side,
I will be sleeping soundly,
For the first time
In a long time."
– Speaking Of Love, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

(via latenightcornerstore)


"And if the night comes,
And the night will come—
Well, at least the war is over.

All the living are dead,
And the dead are all living;
The war is over,
And we are beginning.” 

(via bhalobashi)

"I have something to say
but I can’t say it.

So how about this, instead.
How about I never saw you coming.
Walking through July like
it was a ring of fire and then you.

You in all your morning glory.
You with the lighter fluid in your mouth.
You on my doorstep trying
to sell me a new security system,
smoke in your teeth.

I know the stories. Someone
is always leaving in them, so here,
take a copy of my keys.
Leave your coat. Make this harder
than it has to be. Make this
a disaster because you know I
live for that.

I was napping on the couch when
I dreamed that you got on a plane
and left.

I think it was a nightmare,
at least until you called from the
airport and begged me to come
meet you, then maybe stay forever.
I said yes.

And I know it’s not right,
to say things like this, so I’ll
only say it once.
Listen closely. Are you listening?
Bring your ear to my mouth.

I would follow you anywhere.
I would.
God, I would.
Caitlyn Siehl"What You’re Not Supposed to Say" (via alonesomes)

(via sic-deus-dilexit-mundum)

"I am sorry about the blood you taste in these poems. It was boiling, and I didn’t know where else to put it. On my best days, I am still a little angry. On my worst days, I am not sorry for it. I want you to listen closely to what I don’t want to say. If the sadness grabs you by the collar, don’t kiss her back. When you are no one else’s first choice, be your own. Forgive the broken winged birds for forgetting how to fly, and forgive the splintered boats for learning how to sink. I know I’m in no place to tell you any of this, but my hands needed to hold something, and this pen is all I had. Lately, I’ve been too much wind and not enough rain. All this sits inside of me, and I just knock things down. Nothing ever grows like it used to. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I’m too busy searching for my pulse to notice. I am telling you this, so you don’t ever think it’s pretty. I need you to stop setting the things you love on fire. I need you to know that there are better ways to find light. I need you to know that there are better ways to find warmth."
– Y.Z, A letter to my future self (via rustyvoices)

When did we become so small and so apologetic? Why do we apologize for our humanity? Love what you love, and make no apologies. This is your identity. The most horrendous suspensions of freedom are self-imposed. We imprison ourselves daily, hourly.

We have one life, one shot at all the glorious things of life, and we walk about constricted, apologetic, afraid. We have so little time; we have so little space upon which to spread our love and our talents and our kindness. Run toward life fulsomely and freely.

It runs from us so quickly, like a frightened dog or youth or daylight. Chase it and care for it.

Of course art should be about something big. Something terribly big must be at stake. I don’t see this anymore. Our art is becoming terribly polite and apologetic, much like us. It slinks away like a sagging breast, empty of milk or promise or comfort.

We need to get very fervent again. We need to get jacked up.

– Tennessee Williams (via commovente)

(via backshelfpoet)