April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing...– T.S. Eliot (via asphyxiations)
likeawritingdesk: (this poem was written on a receipt i found) on a slow afternoon after a morning of rain my love has forgotten what ailed him he wants to crawl back into our bed. he wants to weed our garden, he says. I don’t remember you (ever having an interest in our garden), I say, looking through him.
the history of a fire escape: V.2.0. I.I have... →
sleepingtigers: V.2.0. I. I have changed my email address so now there is an excuse for you to never write me and I will never know whether you are ignoring me or trying desperately to find me again but the agony of it all will not be lost on me and I will finally resort to sedatives to help me sleep through dreamless nights without you V.1.0. III. I saw you changed your picture replacing...
weepling: Iron and Wine || Fever Dream Some...
likeawritingdesk: i have built my home here on this street lined with blossoms and greenery the trees are crying flowers far on the other side of town the waves crash and call beating the walls screaming their mist the ocean is put to sleep by la Lune she tucks in his temper with rocks kisses his sweet forehead and in the morning draws the curtains the sky is always crying here Spring does...
cachaemic: “The moon lives in the lining of your skin.” —Pablo Neruda
I let the silence drag on for a long moment, and then, controlling my rising, I...– Jonathan Safran Foer, Tree of Codes. (via mister-sunflower)
I remember riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a...– F. Scott Fitzgerald, My Lost City (via aeloquence)
What is your name? She whispered. She bent down and kissed him, then began...– In The Skin of a Lion, Michael Ondaatje (via 1000scientists)
I feel good with my husband: I like his warmth and his bigness and his...– Sylvia Plath
i am with the roots of flowers entwined, entombed– charles bukowski (via argiak)
Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes. ...– Pablo Neruda
مآ أجمّل أنْ تصمتْ .. فيْ ؤجهْ منْ ينتظرْ منِك الخِصَام .. ! وما أجمل أنْ تضحك فيْ وجهْ منْ يُنتظرْ منك البكـاءْ ..! How beautiful is it to stay silent When someone expects you to be enraged from them. And how beautiful it is to laugh When someone thinks you are going to shed tears.
I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in...– Henry Miller in a letter to Anaïs Nin, August 1932 (via nymphetgarden)