Rati Saxena, from a poem titled "Mountain Nights," featured in Not a muse : the inner lives of women : a world poetry anthology
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Rati Saxena, from a poem titled "Mountain Nights," featured in Not a muse : the inner lives of women : a world poetry anthology
Marina Tsvetaeva, tr. by Elaine Feinstein from, “I’m glad your sickness.” [ID in alt text]
touch me like a memory Mark English, Laura Makabresku, Edvard Munch, Alex Venezia, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Egon Schiele, Peter Wever, Anne Magill
Marie Howe, from an interview ⟡
Tove Ditlevsen, from a poem featured in There Lives a Young Girl in Me Who Will Not Die: Selected Poems
having crush as an adult is so humiliating like you might as well shoot me
lighthousekeeping // jeanette winterson
there is only one of everything, margaret atwood
how to get close to people for beginners
getting close to people strategies
first time getting close to people walkthrough
techniques for getting close to people
of course love exists that’s why matt berninger from the national wrote “i wanna hurry home to you, put on a slow dumb show for you, and crack you up" and then “you know i dreamed about you for 29 years before i saw you, i missed you for 29 years”
Jane Hirshfield, from a poem titled "Heat," featured in The Asking: New and Selected Poems
emily bader and tom blyth photographed for netflix by matthew sprout, 2026
I THINK LOVE IS SOMETHING / THAT HAPPENS TO OTHER PEOPLE - Michael Gray Bulla
[ID:
I THINK LOVE IS SOMETHING
THAT HAPPENS TO OTHER PEOPLE
like winning the lottery / or finding God in your sock drawer.
I think love is something
that happens to other people—nebulous,
distant, an invention of the movies; I think love
is like death / as in,
it happens to everyone but you
until it happens / to you,
and then where else could you be
but in love? Where else could you be but in
the belly of the beast, / that oozing cavern
where people go in fairy tales? I think
love
is a creation. I think maybe you shape it
with your hands, I think maybe you find it
stuck in your molars, I think maybe it comes to you
when you’re in the shower, your face tilted
towards the water while your mind melts somewhere
else, I think maybe
we’ve all been naming it
wrong.
You know that love? That falling-to-your-knees love?
That where’d-the-water-go love? That
hold-me-close-I’ll-never-leave-I-know-your-favorite
-coffee-creamer love? That what-we-talk-about-when-we-
talk-about-love love? You ever felt that? I mean,
really felt any of that? / Yeah, tell me again
how you feel it. Yeah, tell me again / how it fills
the chest, fills the head, fills the
lungs. Tell me
again
what it means to find God in your sock drawers. Tell me
again.
/end ID]
hi! how are you? i hope you are well today. do you perhaps have a collection of poems about yearning/longing? i'm missing someone that's very dear to me and i want to fuel my sadness and drown in it (i really want to ugly cry today). thank you in advance!
— Joy Harjo, from “The First Day Without a Mother”, Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings: Poems
— Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, Rien ne va plus
— Stephen Dunn, from “The Waiting”, The Insistence of Beauty: Poems
(…) this patina of slightly bruised longing, this shimmer of I think I knew you when we were children, this look of I’ve loved you ever since you were born and probably longer than that
— Paul Hostovsky, from “Everyone was Beautiful”, Dear Truth
(…) it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.
— Kim Addonizio, from “Onset”, published in “Tell Me”
— Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
— Robert Hass, from “Meditation at Lagunitas”
Why was I calling you, wishing for you, why was I longing and thirsting for you with every curve of my soul and even with my ribs?
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
You were sick, so sick, with your wound of thwarted longing; you wanted the power to change the illusions you live in.
— Alice Notley, from “Blinding, the White Horse in Front of Me” , Certain Magical Acts
meditation at lagunitas, robert hass
you relapsed on yearning again didn’t you
tracy brimhall, riddle at 29,000 feet.