Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.
I am terrified by this dark thing
that sleeps in me;
all day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
You were my cup of tea, I drink coffee now.
Like most sensitive souls, you already know you’re sensitive.
You soak up others’ moods and desires like a sponge. You absorb sensation the way a paintbrush grasps each color it touches on a palette. The ethereal beauty of a dandelion, the shift of a season, the climax of a song, or a certain stirring scent can evoke such wonder it’ll behave as your very breath itself- moving through cells as fuel does to fire and wind does to waves.
Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
One day, whether you
you will stumble upon
someone who will start
a fire in you that cannot die.
However, the saddest,
most awful truth
you will ever come to find––
is they are not always
with whom we spend our lives.
Tact is the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip.
Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed.
Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.
if i believe
in death be sure
because you have loved me,
moon and sunset
stars and flowers
gold crescendo and silver muting.