tie a rope to the highest tower.
survive the flood inside your head.

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)

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.

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

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


in my grief
i have buried words
and burned away poetry

“i love the way you write
poems, intimately
like letters” you once said.

mere words
won’t bring you back

an artful line
never  once saved



i once dreamt that once
i’d uttered that i loved you,
grazed your face with those
three quivering words,
my wilting body broke free
from the limits of gravity

finally, loving you
was no longer an anchor -
but a set of wings to decorate
an infinite sky.