#inked letters

[shisasan]

I: love you without end.

14 July 1926 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

[inkcobwebs]

𝑰𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧˚

September 18, 1925 The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf

[dreams-reality-life]

Dreams

Meet me in my dreams

Alone and in crowd

Knitting the memories

Emerging from those sounds

Mark the night

Endless and sweet...

away from your presence

Make my heartbeat-

Ecstatically dance

Stumbling on my feet, i fall

Stopping on you.

[ellethethinker]

Realization

Turning on the volume up

I humm the song along

Words come to me

Easy as breathing

Shouting, screaming, singing

A little tune- alone.

feelings come to me

Beautiful as seasons

Never have I ever

Shouted on the top of clouds

Connecting the dots

Making a heart

Out of the tune in the crowd.

Being able to feel the lyrics of a song that you have been listening from your school days is another kind of realization.

[sunshineandmadnessthroughout]

The Rebound Girl

It’s 3 AM. There’s a knock. It’s you. You are drunk and high. You kiss me, you kiss my face, you kiss my lips, with vigour, with aggression you’ve never felt before, violently. I kiss back. I try to match with your violence but you are different tonight. “It’s her, again,” you whisper in my ear. You push me into the bed. You leave in the middle of the night after you’ve satisfied yourself.

I’m on a vacation. To Paris. I am feeling happy in a long time. It’s been a few days that I’ve been here. The phone rings. It’s you. “I swear she’s a bitch. You are the only good thing in my life, I swear,” you cry. I don’t believe you. Liar, I say. We both know better. You plead with me to come back. I feel suffocated. I come back on the next flight thinking you need me. You are standing outside my house. “I might need a key,” you smile. You fondle my head and kiss on my temple. We sit at the balcony together, me in your arms. You play with my hair. We have sex later. The next morning, I realise you left. I know better than to be heartbroken. A note on my study reads, “She says she’s sorry.”

It’s noon. I have my day off. Do you know that? You ring me up. “She called and cried the whole time,” you say. You ask me to meet you at the Symphony. When you see me, you swell my lips with your kiss. We have a cup of coffee and we go to my house. We have sex. You leave.

The things we do for love.

It’s almost been a year since you called. I think about you sometimes. I’ll probably never see you again. I sip my coffee while thinking about our last time together. You knock. This time, you don’t kiss me on seeing me. You tell me I look beautiful which aches and heals me at the same time. You take me to the Symphony. You tell me you're engaged. You tell me how you proposed to her, under the stars and all and tell me how happy you are after all this time. I am happy too. I know I’ll never see you again. I’m happy.

It’s evening. It’s my birthday. It’s been two years since we met the last time. I was happy then. I am happy now. I bring out the cake I baked, light some candles. There’s a knock. Wondering who it could be, I open the door. Lo! It’s you. You pull me into a deep kiss as soon as you see me. I fear history repeating itself, I break the embrace. “She cheated, she slept with somebody,” you tell me. You are crying. I caress your head and make you sit. You tell me you got it all cleared up, that you were meant to be with me. I ask you whether you’re drunk. “Just high on life,” you reply. After two long years, we have sex. This time, not in a rush. You kiss every inch of skin as if it’s sacred. We lay naked, tangled. Your phone rings. “Her,” the screen reads. You get up and dress. You receive the call. “Baby I can’t live without you, baby. Come back, honey,” you cry.

The next morning, I dump the cake in the bin.

[shisasan]

January 10, 1912 Rilke and Andreas-Salomé: a love story in letters (1897-1926)

[shisasan]

December 7 to 8, 1912 Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka First published : 1973

[shisasan]

I think of you often and my love is with you wherever you are.

August 2nd, 1963 Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters First published: 1977