Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
|—||Margaret Atwood (via kitty-en-classe)|
Collection (Part 3)
Her breath was a continuous exhale pressed from her lungs by the vacuous weight of his love.
The words fell in the air as their warmth was shattered by distrust.
Everything’s always in conflict: knees and concrete; tongues and ears; love and us.
He noticed the order of things done subconsciously by others: how they spoke; how they lied; how they unraveled.
She said: ‘Favorite colors don’t tell much, I prefer favorite places to cry.
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
|—||Anne Sexton (via confessionalpoet)|
I do not mind
the many bodies and fleshy smiles
that came after me—
they were only maneuvers
I know you went around
looking for something similar
to what I gave to you,
and in result you slept
with a thousand women
but still only made love to one.
Michal’s Note: The first stanza took me.
|—||Jeanette Winterson (via thehiddenabyss)|
cracked eggs in the carton before you get a chance to use them
the sound of a neighbour crying very late at night
dishes crashing to the kitchen floor and shattering
kissing your lover and picturing someone else’s face
a hint of your late grandmother’s perfume in the air
saying goodbye in an airport to someone who doesn’t know you love them
the blue in all of the paintings
my grandfather’s muscles have toughened
and when i ask him how he is doing,
with his skin paying homage to ghosts
on sheets that reek of morphine, he says
one day god will stretch these muscles
between wooden hooks and i will help him be
the world’s saddest violist.
Some people are flowers
you are meant to look at
but when you hold them
and bring them inside
their days are numbered.
Lauren DeStefano, Sever
I hope you end up famous, so I can finally see your face again.
[Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.]
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
|—||Pablo Neruda, from “Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines” (via the-final-sentence)|
Truman Capote, A Capote Reader
|—||The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall (via budddha)|