Object[ified] Of My Affection
Dear, I believe I could watch you forever. You sit. You sit so lovely in your chair with one hand on your cheek — your cheeks so soft like cotton on a powder puff. You stand. You stand so long and tall and your dress falls down the length of your body — your body like a dangling ribbon, all delicate, all grace. Oh. How you draw from me only this sound, “Oh.” And...
Took you to a concert and bought you a penny necklace (not the ones that cost a penny, but one made with pennies linked together on a chain). Put it around your neck and said that he would call you in the morning. This made you happier than most things. Happier than a lot of things.The latch broke on the walk back home and the necklace fell into the grass. You looked for it for quite a while, got...
Astair, I still love you.
You used to braid my hair on lazy mornings — that were truly afternoons — because we had woken up when the sun was high in the sky. In your still-sleep-filled body, your hands would run slowly, loosely through my hair and my stubborn hair would fall into plaits. Later we would eat the breakfast your mother had left before going to work at the hospital. I remember loving her nurse...
Your Body Is The Catalyst
It is the truth that all of your ideas spread like wildfire. And if I were to paint you it would be with a matchbook and flames — flames climbing up the sides of the canvas and burning the frame edges black (you are not the sort of girl we could hope to contain in a painting). You would leave your mark the way you let your words land on other people’s tongues to be spoken over and over...
Some writers know what the last sentence is going to be before they begin—I...– Michael Ondaatje (via thebronzemedal) (via crashinglybeautiful)
Some encounters are louder than others.
He said, “So, are we going to keep running into each other on the stairs like this… or are we going to do something about it?” I inhaled and tossed my head to the side, as though willing to have it fall clean off my shoulders, and replied, “We’re going to do something about it.” And that was that.
Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant...– Hunter S. Thompson (via gatekeeper) (via thatwistfulfeeling)
Most people, I suppose, are looking for somebody who will put their arms around them. There is a safety in people who let you crawl into themselves. They let you shut the world out, or shut it in on itself, while you remain warm by their chests. I, however, want to meet somebody who is a window, not a closet. I want to be in the same room as someone who does not want to keep me there, who has arms...
Leave me by the wayside.
Your limp wrists holding flowers that died yesterday — flowers you picked from the crevice between the curb and the road — were dangling down the sidewalk. Now they are hanging over my mind. Your fingers graze my temples and the wilted petals brush my shoulders. I shudder, but make no noise, like lightning without the smash of thunder. And I can only picture how you must have sank at...
Your voice was on my machine. (Except I don’t really have a machine. What is it now? Voice mail. Yes.) It didn’t sound like you. It was as though your face was on the television and I was watching it mouth the words to me through white noise. I wish I had been home when you had called. I wanted to tell you that last night I watched a film alone and there was a boy with the same name as...
All the mornings have been dim and grey like cement (that has been sitting out very long without hardening). I wake to each of them the same way: legs swung off the bed and dropped onto the floor without care, no stretching arms, no rushing blood. My face in the mirror is dark, barely reflecting enough light to produce any image on the glass at all. I am becoming...
The Candle Stand
I have started remembering my days in postures. Today, in your house, is a body with its arms wrapped close, a mouth twisted tight to keep shut, and the hooked figure of a person with an aching torso. I arrived with uneasy footsteps on the rug at your front door and it felt nothing like it had under my feet every time before. The rooms smelled like cocoa. Whenever I opened your cupboards or...
I would like the rest of my life to be synonomous...
slowly the way I imagine an ellipsis forms dot dot dot like three spread out strikes of a gavel
The words are about to tip off my tongue and fall off the edge of my lip. This is the feeling you get when you realize that there is no film in any of your cameras. All of my cameras are empty and unable to record anything I want to remember. It is like I am blind. If I open up my photo album, I can see for days and days until I set my eyes on the page with the picture of your first face....