[inaquaveritas]

“I do not write poetry; I take words and dip them in feelings.”

— Arti Honrao (via thatkindofwoman)

[deathandsensuality-archive-deac]

“You look at me as if you were in me. And you are in me. And outside me. Everywhere.”

— Agustín Gómez-Acros, The Carnivorous Lamb (trans. by William Rodarmor)

[reuiio]

[crucifiedlovers]

“Or, like the poets, are you stimulated by despair, does grief move you to reveal your nature?”

— Louise Glück, “Vespers” from The Wild Iris  

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

“Even in your melancholy hue, you're my brightest blue.”

— via unsentproject

[sacredwhores]

Joachim Trier - Sentimental Value (2025)

[derangedrhythms]

[…] at first I didn’t understand about jealousy, I mean I didn’t understand it could be like madness.

Iris Murdoch, from ‘The Sea, the Sea’

[iunknowon91]

‏"آملُ أن أموت،

‏دافئة،

‏ولو بفتاتٍ من حياة

‏حاولتُ عيشها".

‏- نيكي جيوفاني، Nikki Giovanni

[hndz]

Golden light fading into shadows — nature’s softest farewell.

[journalofanobody]

“What was my mad heart dreaming of?”

— Sappho (Stung with Love: Poems and Fragments, trans. Aaron Poochigian)

[thinkingimages]

Gustaf Wernersson Cronquist (Sverige, 1878 - 1967), 1920

[a05]

[trulyvincent]

Abraham Mignon, details from A Cat knocking over a vase of flowers, 1806.

[pinkblanc]

Flower & Garden Magazine, August 1968

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

She writes every day. The lovers in her book say the usual things. Come back to me. Let the rest of the world burn. Only come back to me.

– Kelly Link, The Book of Love

[scollenirv]

[scollenirv]

‏"تراءى لي ما جرى وكأنما الحياة قد هجرَتها للحظات، تاركةً فيها خواء الموت."