poetry

I wait for you at an
unexpected place in your journey
like the rusted key
or the feather you do not pick up
until the way back

—Leonard Cohen, from “The Way Back”
From Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs (via liquidnight)

[You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife.] Smell me.

—

Michael Ondaatje, from “The Cinnamon Peeler”

Favourite final sentences #2

(via the-final-sentence)

(via purveyor-of-fine-whines)

Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on.
I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.

—Jonathan Safran Foer  (via rebreathing)

(Source: larmoyante, via youweresowildflowerchild)

Purple flowers grow, the color blood looks in the veins. They’ll sprout out of my chest. I promise you they’ll crack the ground, grow over the freeways down the slopes to the sea. I’ll be in their faces. I’ll be in the waves, coming down on you from the sky. I’ll be inside the one who holds you.

And then I won’t be.

— Francesca Lia Block, Wasteland (via violentwavesofemotion, angelique-faith)

It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—

—William Carlos Williams, from “A Goodnight” (via proustitute)

(via barcud)

I exist in two places,
here and where you are

—Margaret Atwood  (via pax-caelestis)

(Source: clementinevonradics, via pax-caelestis)

Let me destroy everything that I’ve written
that doesn’t have to do with the way you walk like you’re trying to hold
the sky up with your palms.

I’ve been listening to the rain for the past couple of days, have
been listening to songs that sound like what the rain would say if she
spoke English instead of Morse code, and if my
translations are correct, all she wants is for us to stand beneath her
with our mouths open, mouthing — kiss me.

I love like a leaky faucet or I love like a dam breaking.
There is nothing in between.

When I met you, the little Dutch boy pulled his finger
out of my chest and suddenly, everything inside of me spilled out at once.

I puddled an ocean, rounded the corner on Third Ave all the way uptown
to Grand Central like a flash storm, and
suddenly —

I couldn’t touch a thing without inflicting
water damage, without you breaking apart every molecule
that I had ever known.

—“Water Damage,” Shinji Moon (via commovente)

(via calm-canaries)

Let us shut off the wireless and listen to the past.

—Virginia Woolf, Three Guineas (via proustitute)