#quaintobsessions

[cherokeeghostwriter]

soft as regret

somehow, i find myself in belgium, photographing chestnut trees.

not on purpose- not with a plan- but as if drawn, by some quiet gravity, to these narrow streets and onto this vacant square -shaded like a held breath.

i get lost, not dangerously so, just enough to forget what I was looking for -and there they are chestnut trees impossibly still blossoming, with all the time in the world.

i raise my camera, not to remember- but because something in me needs to hold what has already been expressed.

in may, they bloom. -and i bloom.

the shutter clicks soft as regret.

[fantodsdhrit]

waking just after your world's gone to sleep, patience isn't my virtue. i grow verdigris chasing copper minute hands a graze of your finger has white night, the snow peace and a wait for no one, a wait weightless pushed under avignon pillow case conscious thought seems distant i wrote confessions that i couldn't send in lieu of tracing silver witness statements on your skin. of nighttrains glaring like past stars, just wheels and breathing poplar leaves at the edge of fields cut by our one daub vision surge revelling in silence, its texture brave. minute. such long strides along luminous dark tracks the insomnia of whispers. to arrive pristine. with lotus incense smoke trail, blinds drawn the irretrievable airlessness spanning across our realm, knits temporality back into a valiant universe. a nectarine envelope. shapes that dissipate but not before they've reflected us. a mute spirit longing to sing your river and my name your name and my river as motionless eyelashes, and our bodies shifting like dunes. *wrote this one with marinca

[mikefrawley]

Ghosts Among the Stars

We are ghosts among the stars also mists and morning meadows darkness, light, strong yet tender we’re children dancing in the shadows we hold joy while we touch sorrow all of these yet somehow so much more my friend how short we sing our songs till again we meet upon a distant shore  Inspired by early morning heart bombs from, and reading the posts of two dear friends, @huong1952 and @quaintobsessions.  Sending love to all, Mike <3  

[myribcagesymphony]

“Whisper against my lips, provoke the ghosts.”

By quaintobsessions, excerpt from A bed made in the forest.

[dovesdanceatdawn]

quaintobsessions replied to your post “Sassy”

'How bright the ruin around me grew' - pure magic.

speakingvoiceless replied to your post “Petals”

Perfect!

shreddspread replied to your post “As We Were”

Those 3 images at the end are awesome.

*whispers* Thank you. ♥

[taedhg-2]

To Rise From the Ashes

(For Marinca, @quaintobsessions) In response to 'To Keep My Feet On The Ground'

 I’ve heard the truth is found unspoken between the lines we write as overtones resonate when two notes are

played in perfect pitch. We met washing dishes at the broken hearts party ‘cause all the best conversations happen in the kitchen

where we hum our little songs and leave a little self respect behind, finding it again somehow on tear-slickened strings thrumming And moonlit nights in the dunes

waiting for the sea to whisper a song of forgiveness and resurrection. You wake me too as we take our fragile, then determined, steps toward home,

those places we find vacant and yet so full of expectation, trying at last to release all we’ve held in, for far too long, buried far too deep

burning out all the tarnished parts ‘til we shine gold in the brazen sun.

- Keith Busby

[fantodsdhrit]

Cusp + Antlers

a collaboration with quaintobsessions

The tops of the trees had left Their own perches. Bare of bark They shone in the roving rain As if stripped by an unseen hand. Birdsong here abruptly stilled.

More than what gave us this More than the earth held in

A mundane raindrop at edge Of the leaf; antlers fragmented Inside the corner of the mouth, And autumn’s come. The woods Are sufficient with their grieving.

Enough to let silence prevail Enough to fill our bodies whole

[paper-moon-poetry]

Stringent

You lay down in your rusted bathtub, its clawed feet arching into the rough tile.

You never felt clean enough to allow your ablutions to be performed in a softer place.

Paint peeling the walls down, soap running off your puckered skin, is there anything not slowly running away from itself?

You pull away the curtains but cover yourself in a rough towel.

Maybe when you give in to how the dawn kisses the imperfections from your skin, you can believe yourself whole again..