(Source: saphique)

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(Source: saphique)

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desire

I forgot—against my will, but I just could not recall it—what this desire felt like.  I can’t say I’m not glad to have it back, as much as it literally aches.  I want so fucking badly right now to call you and insist that you meet me at the river for an owed swim.  Oh, jesus fucking christ.  Does aspirin work in this case?  Fuck, fuck, fuck: my chest hurts.  This is why the heart is a metaphor for love.  

I have a new, unstudied clarity.

"She was silent, amazed at the fissures as they widened in the earth of everyday."

John Updike, Marry Me

When I think about that night—our hands copulating as we lay on the kitchen floor, scarcely able to draw breath—when I think about that night, I am overcome with a desperate hope that we will someday, somehow have a chance to fall in love all over again. Allowing myself this hope is, for now, the only thing that keeps me going.

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(via awritersruminations)

I am willing to part with many things, but not with my books.  They are the trappings of me.  They are souvenirs and memories, ruminations, containers for melancholy, statements of intentions and dreams, accomplishments, worries, the ticket stubs from this outrageous trip.  They constitute a resistance force against relativism, and also an apology for it.  They are the attachment objects of post-youth.  I keep them with me as reminders, reassurances, and gadflies.  I wonder to myself: could you accomodate us all?

"

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

"

e.e. cummings, since feeling is first

"

Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a brush ‘tie it into my hand’-

nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening, innocent spontaneous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are among the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted; brain over heart, surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow, mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence; never to rest and never to have:only to grow.

Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.

"

e. e. cummings, Introduction from Collected Poems

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(via melancholynotes)