Maybe/Maybe not

Farz. 22. Dubai//India I live to eat, and read. In that order. I also like to write bad poetry, and find faces in flowers. My bones carry memories of him, dandelion seeds, and rust. Talk to me and tell me things. Describe your mother’s beauty. Vent. What is the color of your eyes? Tell me everything, as long as you promise not to make me fall in love with you. var sc_project=9061902; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="e83c2194"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");

[maureen2musings]

Tenjuan Temple, Kyoto, Japan

kyotophotograph

[metamorphesque]

 — Warsan Shire, Ugly

[text ID: Your daughter’s face is a small riot, / her hands are a civil war, / a refugee camp behind each ear, / a body littered with ugly things, / but God, / doesn’t she wear / the world well.]

[papayajuan2019]

hey everything that has ever left me, can you return back to me one final time

[maureen2musings]

nicoles_moments

[sunsbleeding]

There will always be something to live for, even if it’s just the sun coming through your kitchen window in the morning, even if it’s just waking up with time to keep sleeping, even if it’s for the hope that the future will be tender, and sublime, and brighter than then all the stars…

[echoesoftheinfinite]

[dumblr]

I'm used to it.

[cyberxbattalion]

[anditslove]

Iain Thomas, The Light That Shines When Things End

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Lina A.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Kait Rokowski, from "The Civil Guillotine" in So Much For the Mercy Kill

[letterstotherestofme]

Tomatoes

by Joy Sullivan

I waited so long for love and suddenly, here it is standing in the garden, hands full of heirlooms hot from the sun.

Soon, we'll make a supper of them. Salted slabs between slices of bread. Your beard silvers. My hips ripen. The mail piles up.

Phone calls go unanswered. Forgive us. Our mouths are full of tomatoes. We are so busy being small and hungry and alive.

[flowerytale]

Edgar Allan Poe, from a letter to Mrs. Maria Clemm, July 1849

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

[feral-ballad]

Caitlyn Siehl, from What We Buried; “In the kitchen”

[two-bees-poetry]

[whimsifae]

the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating

[tanyushenka]

A Palestinian boy gives the symbol for liberation as he climbs a pole, 1988 Photographer: Peter Turnley

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Jenny Slate, Little Weirds