vaguely here

the face of indecision

I. Two poets fall in love, and that’s when it gets ugly.

II. We go to dinner. You order the wine, red and burning, and it goes down like blood. We start with Shakespeare, move to Plath. You use alliteration to tell me that I’m ripping out your lungs with my metaphors, and I counteract with a hyperbole, say you’ve clogged my arteries with your similes. Don’t touch me with your dictionary, I want to say. Touch me with your hands.

III. The appetizers arrive. Bread as soft and brown as the flesh of your neck. Move to Emerson. Ask about God. Was Jesus this soft and brown? My Bible never told me about the strength in your apricot arms, your chestnut knuckles, this most divine truth resting under your skin. Move to Whitman. I envy the grass that licks your neck when you tumble down hills and watch the clouds. Touch me with your hands.

IV. The main course is a fawn’s heart seasoned with autumns and breaking. I eat more than you do. Move to Rilke. Write letters. When I tell you about the words, you say that you will die for ink and paper: I want you to break my neck. Move to Allen. Kiss the sunlight. Ask to live. Touch me with your hands.

V. Dessert is your mouth at three a.m., pulled over to the side of an empty, dark highway. Tell me you love me and it goes down like blood. Kiss my hip and it feels like dying. Don’t touch me with your dictionary. Touch me with your hands.

Two Poets Fall In Love, And That’s When It Gets Ugly | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

(via asterlune)

When a poet loves you he’ll paint his words outside the lines of your edges and contours. He will exhaust you with tales of “exes & ohs” and “x’s & o’s”. When a poet loves you he will withdraw his moleskin at three AM and take careful notes while you play knots and crosses on crisp white napkins at a rest stop.

You will know a poet loves you when he makes the bed before you get into it and when he hands you a cup of oolong tea and when he reads you Shel Silverstein before you close your eyes and call it a night. If he is a poet, he will love you in the way he eats spaghettiOs in silence while he spells out tacky haikus from across the table. To be loved by a poet is to sit through dramatic readings of Shakespearean sonnets and to keep a straight face through all three quatrains and that painful final couplet.

When you love a poet you begin to think iambic pentameter. You will want to write him into every sunset and sidewalk puddle. You will exchange stanzas as often as you’ll swap kisses. Your coffee tables, kitchen counters, and creaky floorboards will gather novels and anthologies and epics. You two will neglect commas because you are both too impatient to halt each other’s speech even if just for a moment.

when a poet loves you // when you love a poet || I met the sweetest poet today who was all too willing to tell me about his girlfriend || (via vacataire)

(via vacataire)

We speak in hips and flesh
And hot breath and raised hair
You’re fluent in goosebumps
And arched backs and moans
You say you can’t dance
But you have me spinning
Around you and always
On my toes, giving and taking
A rhythm is all it is
And a slipping into the music
Like a hot bath
And hands where you need them
Being told what to do next
And we’re giving, taking, giving, taking
Til I lose my count, my breath, my place
Now I’m all here
All nails and teeth
And you’re all ears
My cells all scream
I’m here, I’m here, I’m here
And I take and take and take
Til there’s nothing left to take
I take it all
I take everything you have
Every breath

Some admire travellers. As though they’re brave for leaving familiarities behind, in search of adventure. They’re not. They’re just as afraid as everyone else. Just instead of fear of leaving home, it’s fear of staying home. We don’t fear knowing we will not belong, we fear feeling that we should. We’re afraid to stay in one place. We’re afraid if we stop looking, we will never hope to find ourselves. We go out into the strange world because we are already lost and we too need to be found. We’re scared of feeling faraway and alone, so we leave all we know and go as far as we can.

We must have one love, one great love in our life, since it gives us an alibi for all the moments when we are filled with despair.
Albert Camus, Notebooks 1935-1942 (via feellng)

(via mooneyedandglowing)


For whatever we lose
(a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves
we find in the sea.
 - E.E. Cummings

(via vacataire)

Missing you started out
As an itch in the back of my mind
Like dust, swept aside
But still sitting in a pile
Slowly collecting
Til the dust coats my skin
Missing you started out
As a limb falling asleep
First just a numbness
Then a tingling
Pins and needles
Limbs filled with
Grains of sand
Pinpricks everywhere
Under my skin
Missing you started out
As a stomach ache
Surging, ebbing
In unpredictable waves
Missing you started out
With a few innocent symptoms
That quickly overtook me

The infection has spread
To my bones and my lungs
So the deepest pieces of me
Throb with a pain
And each breath is shallower
Without your name
And your absence sizzles
Through my veins
And a blanket of lead
Slowly smothers
My brain

I think It’s really cute how moms
Will grab your wrist while crossing
Really bad traffic
Even though you’re 24 and
Not even her kid.
And dads will smile sheepishly
When they forgot everything
On the grocery list.
And that there are still towns
Where children can play outside
Alone, unsupervised
Without any adult in sight
A town where you never have to assume
You’d be raped or robbed or stabbed
How cute and quaint is that?

I’ll be in black for you
Black black black and red
Because black says leave me be
Like a poisonous toad
Black says I’m mourning
My own death already
Black says I don’t want to be here
With you on this earth
And red says take me take me take me

Hold me closer
Than the sadness
That binds
Our bones
Closer than
The loneliness
We’ll be left with
In the end
When you realize
Your heart still beats
All on its own
But for now
It’s just you and I
So let’s make believe
The earth turns just for us