rj . 20s . femme . aus as if it were readily spoken, readily digested - as if it were so daintily plucked from the blossoms of spring-new flowers. but we both know how that story ends, don't we.
“Come: weep in my arms. If you are the beginning & end, then let us be / what we are best: the slow departure, the unlikely subsistence, bedmates without a bed.”
— Meg Day, from “Ghazal for Finally Leaving What Has Already Left,” Last Psalm at Sea Level (Barrow Street Press, 2018)
“SAY IT. Go ahead, stand before the mirror, look at your mouth, and say it. Blue. See how you pucker up, your lips opening with the consonants into a kiss, and then that final exhalation of vowels? Blue. The word looks like what it is, a syllable blown out into the air, and with the sound and the sight of saying it as one.”
Walt Whitman, “Who Learns My Lessons Complete”, Complete Poems
[Text ID: “And that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each other, is every bit as wonderful.”]
“‘How does one hate a country, or love one? […] I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?”
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness. (via booksnippets)
Every once in a while I think “why do I have all these mental disorders, surely my childhood wasn’t that bad” and then I have an interaction with my mother and I understand.
oh, to be the owner of a small bookshop on a cobblestone street with roses climbing the front of the building, where books are stacked about in piles and there’s always coffee brewing and a sleepy shop dog lifts his head at the sound of the door’s bell and thumps his tail against the hardwood
