writingsforwinter:

I bet he made love urgently, like a train leaving the station.

Here, this is every ounce of salt I gathered from his hips with my tongue.

Here is every canker sore he implanted in my mouth when we kissed.

In Ancient Greece, mourners placed coins over the eyes of the dead

to help them stay shut in the afterlife. As far as I’m concerned,

I can do the same to you. Last night I saw twenty-seven fireflies

collide in the dark, so hard and so fast that you’d be surprised

the light wasn’t knocked out of them.

You knocked the light out of me by taking him away;

now every breath I take is filled with his name,

and you can have this language of scars, this way of struggling

to express feelings, but there’s one thing I want you to know:

there are calluses in every place he ever touched me.

I am not soft anymore.

I am rough and toughened and the first time he called out my name,

it was louder than a thousand tsunamis realizing they have far to go

before touching the shore.

That’s pretty damn hard to beat.

5:16 am  •  •  615 notes

sinandserotonin:

tell me the story
about how the sun
loved the moon so much
he died every night
to let her breathe

(via shuofthewind)

5:10 am  •  •  194,575 notes

writingsforwinter:

I once went out for dinner with an atheist, and we didn’t pray

before the meal. Yet before the appetizers came, the breaded mushrooms

dipped in garlic oil, his mouth still tasted like holy wine.

In bed later, after the rich chocolate torte had settled in our stomachs,

we turned the lights off and practiced leaving our mouths

on one anothers’ bodies like crosses, the kind that were so heavy

they were hard to bear properly.

Two years later he was off to Nepal studying glaciers and I was left

with three of his sweaters and a box of handwritten letters,

the paper thin as wafers placed on the tongue during Communion.

He always swore that reincarnation was not possible,

that there were no such things as saints or miracles.

Yet funny how when we were making love,

he always cried out Oh god, god

as if some strange force had taken hold of his heart

and pulled it out by the roots.

4:17 am  •  •  640 notes

“Every word was a wound opening.”

— 6-Word Story #43 (by writingsforwinter)

3:50 am  •  •  559 notes

(via allerowell)

3:47 am  •  •  39,244 notes

(Source: andrewgibby, via clementinevonradics)

3:47 am  •  •  273 notes

articulat:

Darkness has to hide
in the eyes of the world,
for it is always light
that people are after.
So darkness takes the form
of shadows 
to outline beautiful things
with hope it can redeem
its lifelessness. 
We all love the shade
when the sun is over bearing,
but we take to our roofs
when it blankets us.

I am unhappy.
I will always be unhappy.
But I must continue to mask it
in the form of beautiful shadows.

Misery loves company,
but its love is unrequited.

3:47 am  •  •  8 notes

writingsforwinter:

1. Would it help if I said fruit flies only live for a month, then they die

with bodies waxy as candles and wings that decay into dust?

2. You left canker sores in my mouth after you ate all those salty chips,

open wounds that were just gravemarkers for every place

you kissed me.

3. This is my final eulogy before the coffin goes in the dirt,

before I take an inventory of all the crosses I’ve had to bear

for the last three years and decide my heart was the heaviest

one to handle. Make a crown of thorns out of your scars

and I’ll wear them to kingdom come, before Noah pulls up

the bath plug and lets us drown.

4. Carl Jung said people will do anything to avoid

coming face to face with their own souls; I’ve seen mine looking

at me right in the eyes when we’re in bed and the only thing

I can see is you.

5. After your mom’s last round of chemotherapy you buried

all the bags of hair in the backyard, but I still find dark tendrils

in my morning coffee, between the sheets, once soft on your neck

where I put my mouth and could taste her ashes.

6. The next woman who falls in love with you has to wash off

all the colors that I left on your skin, violet for self-loathing,

gold for empty promises and indigo for the feeling of not breathing,

how you took them all and took them all in silence,

until they bled like a painting out your throat and stained your thighs.

7. 75% of you is made of water so I took a glass and I tried

to drink from you, but you were one of those fountains

that keeps pouring out its sadness until passersby

throw coins in its scarred basin.

8. Anne Boleyn had six fingers, all the more room to hold your heart

in my palms without dropping it; the last time I did the trash collector

had to bring the truck down to haul it away.

9. Let’s grow old together, you always have cab fare in your pocket,

you’ll always pay my way. I’d die before the nursing home took us.

10. Coda means the end of a musical section, coda means end,

the end, ending, but no, I just want this

to be the beginning.

3:22 am  •  •  299 notes

nevver:

Bukowski

3:22 am  •  •  1,630 notes

nevver:

— Oscar Wilde

3:18 am  •  •  1,649 notes