here & nowhere else

keep the things you forgot.

[ithelpstodream]

[venuscomb]

Time’s passage through the memory is like molten glass that can be opaque or crystallize at any given moment at will: a thousand days are melted into one conversation, one glance, one hurt, and one hurt can be shattered and sprinkled over a thousand.

Gloria Naylor

[nevver]

Battle Royal, Alex Middleton

[comicstoastonish]

Sandman #43 (1992)

Writer: Neil Gaiman

Artist: Jill Thompson

[medeae]

Anne Carson, ‘Wildly Constant’, London Review of Books

[aestheticbullshit]

jump.

[mortalpractice]

I want you, Love, ugly and wild and real. Give me               your hand, and I’ll reach, Babe, I’ll grip.

Anya Groner, from “Proposal,” published in PANK Magazine 

[nevver]

The Earth of alone

[hisnameislinguine]

[tristamateer]

Nobody is in love with me and everything is still warm. Still soft. Still rosewater and a typewriter ribbon. Still cookbooks and salt air and sheer black lingerie. Still red lipstick. Still mostly kind. Still often uncomplicated. Still mints at the bottom of my purse, hair held back, pulse thumping through skin. Still sweet tea in a pitcher on the kitchen counter, a cold glass with three lemon slices, a full ice cube tray. I don’t understand how it’s all so light.

Trista Mateer

[lifeinpoetry]

How do I carry this fullness when what burns is its absence

— Gale Marie Thompson, from HELEN OR MY HUNGER, published in MUSE/A

[therealcammie]

[melisica]

David Pagliarulo

[nevver]

Never, Ella Frances Sanders

[ohproserpine-deactivated2015053]

It was one of the reasons I loved him : for that flattering light in which he saw me, for the person I was when I was with him, for what it was he allowed me to be.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I don’t know what to do with my heart.

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Lavinia Dickinson written c. March 1862 

[macrolit]

Love isn’t something natural. Rather it requires discipline, concentration, patience, faith, and the overcoming of narcissism. It isn’t a feeling, it is a practice.

The Art of Loving, Erich Fromm (b. 23 March 1900)