Lightly, lightly.

and I'm five years ago, and three thousand miles away.

[uwhe-arts]

roads … | uwhe-arts

[darkface-deactivated20141008]

What remains within the Fog (by Evan Tchelepi)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

The month was November, the leaves had turned to a brilliant red. What I wanted most was time to absorb something which I already knew I should never forget.

Vita Sackville-West, from “Note of Another Country: Tuscany,” wr. c. 1926 

[your-lovers-and-drifters]

Sabrina, 1954

[recaption]

[adrasteiax]

“I went back but I didn’t stay. Everyone I cared about was gone, some dead, some disappeared into one of those places that don’t exist, the ones we dreamed about because we saw them from the top of the hills—”

— Louise Glück, from Sunrise in “Poems 1962-2012″

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Being in love = addiction, obsession, exclusion of others, insatiable demand for presence, paralysis of other interests and activities.

Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980

[anarchy-of-thought]

[90377]

Sterling Pond & Trees by Aryk Tomlinson

[wishbzne-deactivated20210526]

plainwater: essays and poetry — short talks: on ovid, anne carson

[litverve]

Andrew Montgomery

[imaginablyy]

[lifeinpoetry]

“& i crawled inside you and took off all my clothes and still couldn’t exorcise your heart.”

— Leia Penina Wilson, from “and we lost the city we woke up in,” i built a boat with all the towels in your closet (and will let you drown)

[tristealven]

“The number of hours we have together is actually not so large. Please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of just leaving. Please forget your scarf in my life and come back later for it.”

— Mikko Harvey, from “For M,” Foundry (no. 9, September 2018)

[sheis]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I do not really know whether I have survived. My inner self has shut itself up more and more. As though to protect itself, it has become inaccessible even to me,

Rainer Maria Rilke, from a letter to Elisabeth Schenck wr. c. January 1919 

[lifeinpoetry]

Forget me: my truth. My masterpiece is my nonexistence.

— Zubair Ahmed, from “Semicolons,” published in Poetry