nantes.

Put a few words together prettily and it’s possible
to fall in love.
Move your hand slightly and I’m yours. Or gone.
And think of what can be done with flowers
or paint. I take back
what I said in my message yesterday,
the one saying I had printed and folded each message from you
into a boat, and now had a fleet of origami ships on my desk,
all of them sinking, none of them, I said,
seaworthy. That was mean.
If I think of them differently—not as vessels,
not as anything that might save a life—
but as smooth stones or carved chess pieces,
something I might hold to comfort me,
something I might put in my mouth,
then perhaps I can continue to pass the time this way.
The way I want you
just a detail, just a thing that can be carried.

Arrangement - Missy-Marie Montgomery (via rabbit-light)

screw a career. this year I am studying art, french, and english. and I feel pretty good about it. 

You do not always know what I am feeling. 
Last night in the warm spring air while I was 
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t interest
me, it was love for you that set me 
afire,

and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of 
strangers my most tender feelings 
writhe and 
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand, 
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little

different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

“I think I still have rain somewhere in my heart.”

Have been playing the ‘yes’ game, and it’s been taking me to some real fucking strange places. 

Going a little crazy over Francis Bacon. Again.

I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your
heart went through like a Colt 45, and opened
a dream at the back of the neck. Here, let me unbutton it for you.
Notice the ribs, those sweet things you loved, notice the insides,
the parchment lampshades, the books, the furniture. Notice yourself
sitting, holding my hand on a winter night, notice the look in
my eyes, now close it all up and walk away.

Stumble, pretend you’re dead. Just for me, pretend you can be
hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen
loss. For god’s sake what was I holding when you said good morning.

- I want you to see, Pier Giorgio di Cicco

(via booksvscigarettes)

Because he will grip you by the shoulders and wrench you around and he will bring his bristly mouth to yours and blow
stars
down your throat
until
you are so full
of
light.

— You Better Not Cry by Augusten Burroughs 

I looked at all the trees and didn't know what to do. A box made out of leaves. What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless. Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else. I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon. From the landscape: a sense of scale. From the dead: a sense of scale. I turned my back on the story. A sense of superiority. Everything casts a shadow. Your body told me in a dream it's never been afraid of anything.

- Richard Siken, Detail of the Woods 

It’s all done. I’m done.