You might not be the sun, but you're the sun I need.

— harshita.

you burn to the bone,

I'd never let you go

cause you burn to the bone,

honey you bloom cause I don't.

it's spring and I'm shedding,

do I even know you're my sun.

but you burn to the bone,

so I'd never let you go.

I breathe through the thorns,

so you'd breathe all the roma (amor)

I'd cut you so clean trust me

you'll bleed in my wounds.

you burn to the bone,

honey how can I let you go.

you make me feel like autumn,

because you know you're the sun;

I need.

ig: bluechords

baby, you've been saying a lot of right things lately. who hurt you?

Death might appear to destroy the meaning in our lives, but in fact it is the very source of our lives. As Kafka said, "The meaning of life is that it ends." Death is the engine that keeps us running, giving us the motivation to achieve, learn, love, and create.

Caitlin Doughty, ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: And Other Lessons from the Crematory’

dark nights, crumpled tweed blazers, ink smudged hands, heels clicking on stone floors, morning fog, annotated poems, cracked marble busts, dusty library shelves, dark paintings that no one really understands, old love letters, the soft brush of a hand, haunted hallways, intense stares, staying up all night to write.

Go out and smile at strangers laugh over silly things smile at little babies get soaked in the rain be a little carefree

That's my type so yeah 👀😁🤦

And I am glad he finds books just as comforting as I do.

I AM SUCH A SLUT FOR ANNOTATED BOOKS BYE 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

when I love something too much I tend to stay away from it.

me and who <3

My soul envies the thought of being engulfed in museums once more

December brought with itself some unspoken sins. Your fingers sealed the prettiest postcards addressed to your past and you walked out of our tree house as easily as you had once let yourself in.

I stood near the gate. You suddenly turned around, took out your well concealed gun and pointed it to my deepest hurt.

I lied on the ground of our house, bleeding through my open wound. The stitches were ripped off by the same hands that put it together.

The branches had drooped and the leaves left too. Our house sounded of empty promises and broken homes.

But infedility was in my blood, they said. Yet. Yet.

I go up sometimes, just to sit in the dust that your shoe had once left in it. The walls echo with your laugh and then ring with my yells. But all I can hear is the sound of my own voice begging you to not let go.

Yet. Yet.

Nico

Nico

"it is a feature of human nature to give what we most wish to receive"

- Eleanor Catton

there is rust in my mouth, the stain of an old kiss

- Anne Sexton, The Lost Lie

death was not the opposite of life. it was already here, within my being, it had always been here and no struggle would permit me to forget that

looking at the moon from your bedroom is an emotion

Clarice Lispector | Bryan Washington | Richard Siken | Emily Dickinson | Andrés Cerpa | Rainer Maria Rilke | Carol Rifka Brunt