gloworm

What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?

—Mark Strand, from “No Words Can Describe It” (via awritersruminations)

What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart?

—Virginia Woolf, from Night and Day (Duckworth, 1919)

(Source: seabois, via basicaquatics)

comakid:

i mean, you really gotta put it in perspective.
get yourself at your worst and ask “hey, how do i feel about this?”
get yourself better and then tell yourself “i am only sad that i won’t be alive forever.”
invite the only people that matter to you over to your apartment.
smash all of the fine…

umustcreate:

& everything
I’ve found is better
when you are around.
I can taste more flavours
in wine after a kiss
from your lips.
I can hear more notes
in symphonies after you speak
to me.
I can see more shapes
in the sky after we have watched
them together on our backs.
I can smell the seasons
…

And I have stepped into your dream at night,
A stranger there, my body steeped in moonlight.
I watched you tremble, washed in all that silver.

Love, the stars have fallen into the garden
And turned to frost. They have opened like a hand.

—Thomas James, from “Tom O’ Bedlam among the Sunflowers” (via awritersruminations)

There was always the hunger,
The death of small things
Somewhere in your body

—Thomas James, from “Two Aunts” (via awritersruminations)

basicaquatics:

memory:
we were stupid-young
slender lithe bodies baking
underneath the majestic summer sun
drowsy and drunk off of the
salt on our lips, off of our browning skin
let our hair grow long so
they innocuously got tangled in straps,
lingered in cavernous laughing mouths,
humidly curled against bare…