She went on writing him love letters, in the notion that a woman must write to her lover. But whilst she wrote it was another man she saw, a phantom fashioned out of her most ardent memories, of her finest reading, her strongest lusts; and at last he became so real, so tangible — that she palpitated wondering, without, however, the power to imagine him clearly; so lost was he, like a god, beneath the abundance of his attributes. He dwelt in that azure land where silk ladders hang from balconies under the breath of flowers, in the light of the moon. She felt him near her; he was coming, and would carry her right away in a kiss.
– Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
[…] some feelings sink so deep into the heart that only loneliness can help you find them again. Some truths about yourself are so painful that only shame can help you live with them. And some things are just so sad that only your soul can do the crying for you.
|—||Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram|
She makes art from life’s dusty remains, which she retrieves from one lonely valley of existence.
– Patricia Josephine from “Heartbreak of Invention” blog
I am not the first person you loved
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers
We have both known loss like the sharp edges of a knife
We have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin
Our love came unannounced in the middle of the night
Our love came when we’d given up on asking love to come
I think that has to be part of its miracle
This is how we heal
I will kiss you like forgiveness
You will hold me like I’m hope
Our arms will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin
I will write novels to the scar of your nose
I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used
trying to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you
And I will not be afraid of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
|—||Clementine von Radics, Mouthful of Forevers
Your mouth stripped away my skin
peeled my body to the bone
like virgin snow, an open pulse
underneath your brutal hands
How did you become so hollow?
How did you burn out the sound
of your own heart beating
and how did you break me without
that we all come from galaxies?
We are all children of countless elements
spinning in empty space
forming intricate patterns
that burst into light so vast
that those of us on earth
cannot sense the death of a star
until many times later
And slowly I am beginning to see
that for you it was all a colorless void
from which you took fistfuls
to make yourself whole.
– (Cassidy Black, Tumbler)
You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing.
— E.E. Cummings
I was able to expel from my mind all human hope. On every form of joy, in order to strangle it, I pounced stealthily like a wild animal.
I called to my executioners to let me bite the ends of their guns, as I died. I called to all plagues to stifle me with sand and blood. Disaster was my god. I stretched out in mud. I dried myself in criminal air. I played clever tricks on insanity.
Spring brought to me an idiot’s terrifying laughter.
|—||Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell (via shitiunderline)|
Not a fire of passion, not a ravaging fire, but something paralyzing, like the fire of cluster bombs that suck up the oxygen around them and leave you panting because you’ve been kicked in the gut and a vacuum has ripped up every living lung tissue and dried your mouth, and you hope nobody speaks, because you can’t talk, and you pray no one asks you to move, because your heart is clogged and beats so fast it would sooner spit out shards of glass than let anything else flow through its narrowed chambers. Fire like fear, like panic, like one more minute of this and I’ll die if he doesn’t knock at my door, but I’d sooner he never knock than knock now.
|— metaphorformetaphor, Tumbler||André Aciman, from Call Me by Your Name|
It’s okay. Everyone’s survival looks a little bit like death sometimes.
|—||Andrea Gibson, Angels of the Get Through|
I’m all about heartless girls, the kind who define themselves by how much they can live through. girls who walk around holey, girls who scare everyone with our emptiness, girls who are fragile but almost immortal, self destructive and never destroyed. girls with mean eyes and soft lips and more magic than they know how to handle. girls who are sometimes cruel, ruthless, parasitic but always hungry. girls who wonder if they see beauty in this breaking because it’s really there or just because seeing anything else would hurt too much. girls who can’t grow up now, won’t – don’t call us woman, we will never be yours to hold or will hold anything for you, we just can’t be that kind of nurturing anymore. girls who hardened their heart and still came out bloody, girls who love their softness with vicious hands, girls who aren’t afraid to bleed. girls who are somewhere between cockroach and phoenix. girls who weather every storm, girls who take, take, take and take back what you tore out, girls who know nothing but how to survive.
Do not fall in love with people like me.
I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth.
I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave…you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.
|—||Caitlyn Siehl, Literary Sexts: A Collection of Short & Sexy Love Poems|
I forgot how beautiful silence and empty streets can be.
Gone and here. There and not. Smog and light. Poison and cures. As thin as smoke, but as heavy as fog. Thicker than clouds. The weather in her mind is similar to mine.
|—||Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale|
A thousand recollected lives were passing through her, a thousand stories – of love and work, of parents and children, of duty and joy and grief. Beds slept in and meals eaten, and the bliss and pain of the body, and a view of summer leaves from a window on a morning it had rained; the nights of loneliness and the nights of love, the soul in it’s body keeping always longing to be known.
|—||Justin Cronin, The Passage|
photo by : Andre Josselin
I want a love that gets my heart racing, body aching, and mind anticipating. I want a love that is true. I want the morning calls and 3AM texts; all the monthiversaries and anniversaries and everything in between. I want kisses on my forehead and kisses on my lips and kisses on my inner thigh. I want the whispers of sweet nothings and the fights and screams in the rain. I want to see sunsets and sunrises and I want to argue over movies and dinners and other stupid things. But if it’s not with you, I don’t want it at all. Not even a little bit.
|— Tumbler||wenwenlu // wenwrites|
You have so many layers, that you can peel away a few, and everyone’s so shocked or impressed that you’re baring your soul, while to you it’s nothing, because you know you’ve twenty more layers to go.
|—||Craig Thompson, Carnet de Voyage|
I wish I could love. But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget.
|—||Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray|
She had cast her nets out into the sea and stumbled upon an island of peace. Now love slumbers next to her in bed in the evenings, pulling her close until she feels its heartbeat on her back even during dark moments of moonless skies. A sensual dream wrapping its warmth around her heart, feeding some hunger inside her ragged soul.
– Patricia Josephine Jones from Heartbreak of Invention
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved… in secret, between the shadow and the soul. – Pablo Neruda, 100 Sonnets
I have no reason to mourn you.
You are not dead, not deceased, not gone from this world,
but you might as well be.
We ended so, unceremoniously.
Where was the eulogy?
I didn’t have time to react, to process the departure of your presence –
it all happened so fast and I just moved with the waves of the emotions
that I didn’t know I was feeling, until it was too late.
Until everything hit me all at once –
you were gone, with no expectation or inclination.
You just left, no note of explanation.
Just had to accept your new position
Did I deserve this?
Our memories replayed in my mind for days, weeks, months, before I got a grip.
I thought I got a grip.
I should have gotten a grip,
but then I remembered your grip and how it coiled around me at night.
And I still feel it at times, like you never left,
only be awaken by the harsh reality of your absence.
Your silhouette haunts my favorites places.
I hear your voice in the background vocals of my favorite lyrics.
I inhale your scent that still lingers in some unforgettable spaces.
We see each other and words cease to exist.
You are not dead, not deceased, not a ghost of any form,
but you might as well be.
You move like a mute apparition.
A hallowed vision of someone I used to know,
or thought I knew,
or should have known better because I would have seen it coming.
But then again, emotional deaths never work out so logically.
So this leaves me empty, feeling like some sense of closure is missing.
You are not dead, not deceased, but from my world you remain to be…
I once fell in love with a sliver of light and how it warmed regret without words. It’s easier to burn thoughts that were birthed for another day, and I’d press time into your eyes if abandonment could hang the smile laughter broke back onto your heart. Some mirrors are better than others, and I know reflections show the worst versions of ourselves, but I know your demons by name. And though I wonder if you can feel when I’m thinking of you or if that crushing weight is only on my chest, your absence is the only thing I have in my hands. I know one day we’ll be dust, but today we’re hope. Today, we’re the guitar weeping for the poems the rose couldn’t bleed for the thorns. The dandelion reaching for a sky that doesn’t exist. The clouds telling stories to hands that curse existence. You said I could be whatever I want, and tonight, I want to be yours. I don’t need you to save me; I just want you to love me.
– teacup, Tumbler
“I see myself abandoned, solitary, thrown into a cell without dimensions, where light and shadows are silent phantoms. Within my inner self I find the silence I am seeking. But it leaves me so bereft of any memory of any human being and of me myself, that I transform this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. Were I to cry out — I can no longer see things clearly — my voice would receive the same indifferent echo from the walls of the earth.”
― Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart
They belong to different generations, have had such different lives. Yet they have so many of the same tastes, the same disappointments. From stories they passed to confidences, each unwrapping a package of grief and yearning.
— Susan Sontag, from The Volcano Lover
You mentioned my mother, and I went numb, my body imitates ice and my tongue bleeds silence. My mother is in a cage, my father is in a cage too because the only way they can be together is when they’re hurting each other inside of my head. I drag my mom’s Scarlet letter like a cross.
“I don’t want to talk about them,” I say and you sink your teeth deeper into the subject.
“My mother was a whore and my father was a masochist,” I repeat and I can taste blood between the cracks of my tongue. You hate when I call my mother a whore, but after my father left and took us with him, that’s what he came to know her as.
If you think I can demolish a heart… You should really meet my mother.
—Bierina N // family talk (Via bierina) , Tumbler
No light; but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all, but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
|—||Paradise Lost, John Milton|
But it’s not easy. While we loved each other we didn’t need words to make ourselves understood. But people don’t love forever. A time came when I should have found the words to keep her with me, only I couldn’t.
|—||Albert Camus, The Plague|
I would have loved him in any era, in any dark age
I would take him into the twilight and unwind him
slide my fingers through his hair and pull him to his knees
As it is in this afternoon, late in the twentieth century
I sit on a chair in the kitchen with my keys in my lap
pressing the black button on the answering machine
over and over, listening to his message
his voice strung along the wires outside my window
where the birds balance themselves and stare off into the trees
thinking even in the farthest future
in the most distant universe
I would have recognized this voice, refracted,
as it would be, like light
from a small uncharted star.
Dorianne Laux, excerpt from “As It Is”
It ends or it doesn’t. That’s what you say. That’s how you get through it. The tunnel, the night, the pain, the love. It ends or it doesn’t. If the sun never comes up, you find a way to live without it. If they don’t come back, you sleep in the middle of the bed, learn how to make enough coffee for yourself alone. Adapt. Adjust. It ends or it doesn’t. It ends or it doesn’t. We do not perish.
|—||Caitlyn Siehl, words"es, Tumbler|
This isn’t lust. Lust wants, does the obvious… Love is greedier. Love wants round-the-clock care; protection; rings, vows, joint accounts; scented candles on birthdays; life insurance. Babies. Love’s a dictator.
|—||David Mitchell, The Bone Clocks (via thelovejournals )|
I want somebody
with a sharp intellect
and a heart from hell.
eyes like starfire
and a mouth with a kiss
like a bottomless well.
I just want someone
who will love me.
I have silences buried
so deep within me,
I weep when they blossom.
Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, / bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. / Sometimes, the men – they come with keys, / and sometimes, the men – they come with hammers.
|—||Warsan Shire, from “The House,” Her Blue Body|
I’m tired of my life, my clothes, the things I say. I’m hacking away at the surface, as at some kind of gray ice, trying to break through to what is underneath or I am dead. I can feel the surface trembling—it seems ready to give but it never does. I am uninterested in current events. How can I justify this? How can I explain it? I don’t want to have the same vocabulary I’ve always had. I want something richer, broader, more penetrating and powerful.
|—||James Salter, Memorable Days: The Selected Letters of James Salter and Robert Phelps|
Not everyone can feel things as deeply as you. Most people, their feelings are … bland, tasteless. They’ll never understand what it’s like to read a poem and feel almost like they’re flying, or to see a bleeding fish and feel grief that shatters their heart…
|—||Juliann Garey, Too Bright to Hear Too Loud to See|