-
I love you, I almost said, but then-
I loved the thing that wore your bones,
that laid them against mine,
that made the shape of you known to me.
It slid your hand into my hand, claws and all,
and by its hand,
I will learn to love you too.
tumblr dot com
Three Goblin Art
KIROKAZE
h

@theartofmadeline
Not today Justin

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

★
i don't do bad sauce passes

#extradirty

titsay
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

roma★
Mike Driver
Show & Tell

tannertan36
Stranger Things
One Nice Bug Per Day
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
seen from Germany

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Brazil

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from T1

seen from Türkiye

seen from Japan
@halfnotewhistle
-
I love you, I almost said, but then-
I loved the thing that wore your bones,
that laid them against mine,
that made the shape of you known to me.
It slid your hand into my hand, claws and all,
and by its hand,
I will learn to love you too.
sat on the bathroom floor for a while yesterday morning writing this one, and continued to adjust it throughout the day yesterday and this morning. I think I’m satisfied with it now.
-
i wouldn't be the iron to cauterize the edges of your wound, not the collagen that binds it- but they come in time.
my fingertips would explore your scars, curious and doting, seeking the shifts in sensation, reminding you they’re still skin
as you survey the crater left, smoothed echoes of jagged terrain, part of the landscape all the same- a site not of lack but of impact.
concept I’ve been toying with, which asked tonight to be a poem. I may yet expand on it, we will see.
-
I love you. I love you. I love you reverberates. Sweetening my breath. Bursting to be spoken.
I love you. I’m thrumming with it. But wouldn’t the words make you freeze?
Love is an action, I hum like a mantra, so I hold my tongue. I write it cursive in caresses on your arm, and hold you when you dare to ask.
Reggie either knew I was tense and came to help (as he often does), or heard me plucking at Clover Song and wanted to listen. Either way, please enjoy my cat vibing to my music.
eh what the hell here's a demo of the wip i'm most lately obsessed with working on
A demo of my current wip!
I’m gay and quarantined and yearning, so here is “Clover Song” which is tentatively done enough for now. Lyrics under the cut. ...
Here are some phone note scribbles because it is 10am and I am soft and have been enjoying the morning.
This song isn't finished yet I think, but here is some asmr of my cat slowly melting as I serenade him
early piece of a wip still, but a concept i've had on my mind this week.
1/18/19 scrap
--
"You talk a tall game about earned confidence," they laughed to themself, "but you hunch over a near-empty page like a secret and jump when anyone walks by. Relax," they said, "you are smaller than you've come to know. The senses span so much information- what's a kid against the wall scrawling tentatively in a notebook, against the stretching hallway, fluorescent lights, the warm indoor air settling on skin, the rustle of footsteps and the bustle of a dozen others finding their next destination? If you're even on their radar, you're only just- and why should they care for the letters you do not offer them?
You are not nothing, but the world is so much that you are scarcely visible. You may as well write freely, and write where you wish."
My cat found this series of things that I wrote six years ago !! Each piece I wrote in a different cafe, and left it folded on the table for someone to stumble across or not. “For strangers in coffee shops,” each folded paper was labeled.
-
She wondered what it would be like to sway the hearts of thousands with her words. To be quoted in speeches and novels and diaries and be read and misunderstood by scholars and students alike.
But she’d always been too meek a thing for her voice to carry so far.
It suited her far better to whisper her dreams in coffee shops and leave them on the table for strangers to find and maybe quirk a smile at before slipping them halfheartedly into pockets or trash cans or dreams of their own.
“A humbler role,” she murmured aloud. No one, of course, was listening.
-
– I’m no romantic. My heart doesn’t flutter, exactly; it never burns but the closest I’ve felt to unbridled adoration is in a dark and crowded room, just off the stage, where music courses through me, skin buzzing with it, bones resonating, the drumbeat more important than my heart, and you- your voice among them, permeating the air to brush the fingertips of anyone who’d listen. For all of us indiscriminately, but… each of us, intimately- and even I can feel the softness in your gaze, the warmth of your arms, and in that improbable moment, almost, almost find myself wanting- until the final chord erodes the daydream. I don’t want to be your everything, and it’s not that I want you to write me a song, but… it’s good to pretend, for a moment, that I could be something to you.
insomniac poem from my old dA, 2/27/13
-
When the sun sleeps, I am restless; the cold blue moon sends shivers in return for the sleep from my eyes, and the stars some midnights see fit to console me with tales in their wake. Sunken shadows above my cheeks are the remnant of my dreams that maybe if a story were etched on the back of my eyelids, I could keep them closed til morning.
Stumbled across this on my old dA, I remember this one fondly because I did the writing process entirely in sharpie on my then-husband’s back. Dated 4/16/14.
-
She ran her fingers gently along the bumps on his back and sought familiar constellations or letters in Braille. She loved him in the way she loved the night sky, a muted way that made her feel at ease- the safe dark, quiet longing, gentle breeze. She wrote to him in verse, ink on skin, enveloped him in the only way she knew; though her vagrant mind loved letters, the language of bodies was one she feared she’d never understand.
I asked a musician I admire for some writing advice, what kinds of things prompt him to write, how he makes writing happen etc. But the question I almost posed was “Do you ever worry you’ll run out of things to write about?”
-
I was wry and clever, many years ago, as fine a poet as ever held a pen, careful to place my iambs where they’d flow and counting meter line and line again. Had I ever thought to save words for the future, maybe it would have never come to pass that one day, in my hubris, like a poacher, I hunted down those phrases to their last. In recent years, I’d wait by eager pages to turn a phrase the way I used to do, but keepers say the language is endangered, the last few words surviving in a zoo with plaques that say their number’s growing thin. To think- I used to catch them on the wind!
An old thing, about five years and a week old, but I was thinking about it the past few days and wanted to share it
-
The weather is warm today, and you are tempted by the fresh air and sunlight; your pallor reminds you that you’ve gone without these for far too long, and you risk a venture out onto your back lawn, though the world presses in on you sometimes through your white picket fence.
Your gaze trails the ground for the first time since snowfall. The spring is evident in the clover patches, and each diverts your attention a moment as you pass. This is fine, you think, remembering the houses that tower next to yours. People your age are allowed this much, to admire the aesthetic.
You admire the aesthetic, but it isn’t what draws your eyes. You don’t mean to, but in each moment you give a patch, you scope it for four-leaf clovers. It’s a childish thing, you know, but you can’t help it. You’ve trained your eye to be discerning, your heart to clutch its hope. You’re not superstitious, but you’ve found ample in seasons past to know luck isn’t hard to find if you only keep on looking.
You see one, you think, now and then, from the corner of your eye, and without your permission your knees buckle with a practiced motion and you are crouching in the grass, your fingers brushing tiny leaves aside. You hear a call, and whip your head to your left. Your next-door neighbor is out playing with her dog, and you imagine her walking to the adjoining fence and asking you what you’re doing, perhaps with condescension or perhaps only curiosity. You imagine yourself telling her about your search and asking her if it’s something you’re supposed to grow out of.
Your four-leaf is gone from sight, or maybe it was only the three-leafs layered just so. You dust yourself off and make for your back door, wishing you could have dropped something as a pretense to protect your fragile pride. You find yourself scanning clover patches on your way, catching a four-leaf now and then in your periphery only to pause and find it isn’t there at all, and you wonder if this is why children grow up and why grown-ups learn to stop looking. Inside, you cast a glance at your neighbor through the window and wonder what made her give up on clover-luck and how long it was ago.
You ask yourself if you’ll give up one day, too. Your heart will clutch its hope that luck isn’t hard to find, but the world will press in on you through your white picket fence until you only look when no one’s there to see.