secrets under rose bushes,
and curled up in leaves
hiding in the shadow of a moonlit eve
…but we live in a time where losing your phone is more dramatic than losing your virginity.
i hate it when, in prose and poetry alike, leathery is the only adjective they can find to describe the skin on an old woman’s hand. today i thought it looked more like silk: the wrinkles, undulations ripples waves in an opalescent scarf; blue veins, the pattern of tree roots, rivers cracking continents. her nails were flawlessly polished with the pink of a petal fallen from a sakura tree. she wore a ring, only one, a wedding ring: the camp fire of a wanderer in this beautiful and ancient landscape.
Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary (via luffingyou)
everyone on tumblr is a pussy
couch potato, multiply by two: each buttock has grown deserving of its own identity after twelve hours in the same position on the same sofa. it’s strange that my body is so lethargic and heavy when my mind is lithe as it is. ideas run through it like deer in the woods, jumping the rotting logs, fallen trees that lie in their way. but my limbs, my fingers most importantly, cannot keep up. this great natural phenomenon, the migration of my thoughts through thorn and bracken, cannot be documented, not by my hand anyway.
frustration carves crescents into the skin on my palms.
i stand at the window and i listen to jazz and i close my eyes and i walk through the garden and i watch the birds. and i wait for it to come. but it doesn’t come.
"Here. Here’s simple and happy. That’s what I meant to give you."
Vogue Japan Sept 2012
by Tim Walker
David Lynch on cheese.
being romantically frustrated is 1000000 worse than being sexually frustrated because you can get yourself off but you can’t spoon with yourself and kiss your own forehead
you’re loveliest when ____________
i’m not going to fill that space and you should never settle for anyone that tries to. you do not need filling in. the only thing that should fill the cracks in your skin is your own foundation. never let another person try. you are what you are and what you are is lovely
today we were under the willow tree and the sunshine shy through its branches. short sleeves were the shame we wore, having fallen again for the tricks of the april sky. a bird was singing.
the bird was our flautist, we were toppled queens at a banquet: pots of salsa and tzatziki and houmous dip, dappled with the crumbs of tesco’s own brand sesame breadsticks; and reduced for clearance raspberries and strawberries and whipped cream; and a bottled of prosecco, out of place amongst the bargains. you could tell it was stolen goods.
and we smoked a cigarette and we talked and we laughed and we cried - a lie because it was i who cried. the apples in my cheeks squeezed out fat salty tears, rolling out from under heart shaped sunglasses. and we cleared the debris and lay back and it was a silence that is only shared between best friends.