and so the emeralds sink slowly into the ruby sea

arlo / 22 / she/they / aesthetic blog

[girltalk]

[petaltexturedskies]

Thomas Hardy, The Return of the Native

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, in a letter to Emma Vaughan, dated 12 August 1899, from The Letters of Virginia Woolf: Vol. I (1888-1912)

[petaltexturedskies]

Gustave Flaubert, The Selected Letters

[saintweaver]

Bob Kaufman, Darkwalking Endlessly

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol. I: 1940-1956

[petaltexturedskies]

Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting

[petaltexturedskies]

Marie Howe, from “The Affliction” in Magdalene (originally published in 2017)

[apoemaday]

How to Drink Water When There Is Wine

by Barbara Kingsolver

How to stay at this desk when the sun is barefooting cartwheels over the grass —

How to step carefully on the path that begs for the fleet unfettered gait of a deer —

How to go home again when the wood thrush is promising the drunk liquid bliss of dusk —

How to resist the kiss, the body forbidden that plucks the long vibrating string of want —

How to drink water when there is wine —

Once I knew all these brick-shaped things, and how they protract the striving and virtuous life.

Now I have lived long and I know better.

[soracities]

e.e. cummings, from "the spring has been exquisite and the", in Etcetera: The Unpublished Poems (1983), from Complete Poems: 1904-1962 [ID’d]

[petaltexturedskies]

Mary Oliver, from “Swimming, One Day in August” in Red Bird

[nixscriptum]

[literaryvein]

L. V., exhumed writings

[allloversbetray]

Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson // Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn // Musica Humana by Ilya Kaminsky // Basic August by Eileen Myles // Imitations of Drowning by Anne Sexton // Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? by Raymond Carver // The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner // Atmospheric Embroidery by Meena Alexander // The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath by Sylvia Plath // The Women by Kim Addonizio // 

[firstfullmoon]

“One arm cocked across my chest, I’m not smiling. I cup my arm with my other hand, holding myself together. I am still and taut as a chrysalis this summer. Do I sense that the silence can’t last? Is that what I wait for? Afternoons my father mows the lawn, the air is suddenly thick with fresh green dust from the clippings, the smell pungent and musty, alive and heavy. The waiting feels like that. It crams my lungs. It weighs on my chest.”

— Alex Marzano-Lesnevich, from The Fact of a Body: A Murder and a Memoir

[soracities]

Sujata Bhatt, from “Baltimore”, Collected Poems

[Text ID: “For the rest of that summer I waited for everything - the rest of that summer spiralled into one dry evening; the rest of that summer I understood less and less while loving Kierkegaard more and more and waiting, always waiting for something that should be, something I wanted to be as sudden as fireflies.”]

[kidzbopdeathgrips]

levelheaded normalday preppers have been stockpiling sensible amounts of coffee and frozen meals for when the world is the same as it usually is