poetry

You’re still searching for me in every woman.

—Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008)

(Source: imdb.com, via scent-of-me1980)

myinkstainedheart:

I think I have lived in all winters,
the cold days swelled to weeks that
burgeoned into months. Oh my years, set adrift.
I would like my morrows all summoned
before you, Helios, Apollo, where you can
warm the flesh, make pliant the limbs,
here rigid and stiff.

(via myinkstainedheart)

Even in the dark I think of you—
That these shadows have made me long for your touch.
Might that I wrap myself in the soft, white blanket of your skin,
your whispers tumbling warmly into my ear.
And yet as I consider the tenderness within your voice
It is only the sound of my heart—trembling
To be next to you.

—Charles Coakley Simson, “Intimacy” (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(via gnostix1)

myinkstainedheart:

If you are spring, come to me,
sweeten the mouth, lay pink florets
over my round bosom. Come to me,
loosen the braid resting on the nape
if you are autumn. If you are winter,
come also, it is high time to be bold,
my trembling hands will unveil my flaw.
Any time, any season, return to me.
Come nonetheless, come nonetheless.

I wanted to be wanted and he was very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

—Richard Siken, Crush  (via krook)

(Source: vacants, via youweresowildflowerchild)