time softens all memories.

mallory 21 usa i love jesus and writing

[paletranquility]

november 24 2019

the sky is light pink

and i want to sit up with someone.

i am not sleepy

i am in the mood for love

and i miss someone.

my chest collapses with tenderness

every time i think of him

but the heavenly glowing clouds reminds me

that people are alive out there.

my eyes fill with tears at this grand, quiet moment.

yes, i do miss someone very much but i will

hold on a bit longer.

[paletranquility]

december 5 2019

the light purple clouds reflecting light from over the mountain

the airplanes with their warm rhythm moving across the sky

the christmas lights from the neighborhood only visible through the bare winter trees.

signs of life calling out to me, looking in, telling me to stay alive.

[paletranquility]

june 30 2017

i cannot believe i am still writing about him

but i will stop writing when i stop

having sweet dreams about him

looking for him everywhere

smiling every time he likes my photo.

he touched my heart

in ways i wish he had not

but i am at peace about it,

i forgive us both.

i hope that one day

when he realizes i need someone,

he is there.

he is still with me.

he pushes his way through my years,

his memory landing on these notebook pages.

i do not know why it has to be like this,

but it is alright -

i will hold him dear to my heart

until it is finally time to say

goodbye.

[paletranquility]

I appreciate him so much that it burdens me; it hurts.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Spring, dreaminess, sleepiness, healing under the gentle moonlight, inability to think yet I’ve been enjoying it.”

— Zinaida Nikolaevna Gippius, from Selected Works; “Memoirs of Martynov,”

[risleys]

“Sweeter than the early morning in summer.”

— Ernest Hemingway, from “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” written c. 1940 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[paletranquility]

[harrystyle420]

“The waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.”

— Anne Sexton, from a letter to W.D. Snodgrass, November 15, 1958; Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters. (via xshayarsha)

[wrote-you-a-poem]

[heart2ngel-deactivated20190511]

“I suffer in my loving, and you know it.”

— Willa Cather, from The Complete Works of Willa Cather; “The Basket,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I love what is human, what gives softness,”

— Anaïs Nin, from a letter to Henry Miller written c. December 1933

[paletranquility]

[metaphorformetaphor]

“[…] sadness is too mild a word for the grief I went through, and grief too noble-sounding for the dull hopelessness I’ll call despair for lack of a better word.”

— Julia Alvarez, from “Arborvitae,” The Woman I Kept to Myself (A Shannon Ravenel Book, 2011)                          

[paletranquility]

[metaphorformetaphor]

“You arrived and suddenly it was summer, summer with its palm trees, sultry breeze, its winds of restless youth.”

— Manuel Bandeira, from “Union,” This Earth, That Sky: Poems by Manuel Bandeira (University of California Press, 2018)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I have read your poems with my door locked late at night and I have read them on the seashore where I could look all round me and see no more sign of human life than the ships out at sea: and here I often found myself waking up from a reverie with the book open before me. I love all poetry, and high generous thoughts make the tears rush to my eyes, but sometimes a word or a phrase of yours takes me away from the world around me and places me in an ideal land surrounded by realities more than any poem I ever read.”

Bram Stoker, from a letter to Walt Whitman written c. February 1872

[paletranquility]