primadonna girl, all i ever wanted was the world; lover of bon mots, big hair, and blogging.
what sort of diary should i like mine to be? something looseknit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind.
i should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.
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Sometimes (read: often), I go watch La Blogotheque’s Bon Iver videos and reminisce about their ACL Live taping; the fact that I was only ten feet away from them, and the fact that I will probably never go to another concert that could ever emotionally affect me in the same way. I still get chills whenever a Bon Iver song happens to come up on my iTunes, and For Emma and Skinny Love will always have a special place in my heart.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to.
He had no other appetite.
She bit him, she gnawed him, she sucked.
She wanted him complete inside her,
Safe and sure forever and ever.
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains.
Her eyes wanted nothing to get away.
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows.
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment.
He wanted all future to cease.
He wanted to topple with his arms round her.
Off that moment’s brink and into nothing,
Or everlasting or whatever there was.
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones.
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come.
Her smiles were spider bites,
So he would lie still till she felt hungry.
His words were occupying armies.
Her laughs were an assassin’s attempts.
His looks were bullets; daggers of revenge.
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets.
His whispers were whips and jackboots.
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing.
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway.
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks,
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap.
His promises were the surgeon’s gag.
Her promises took the top off his skull—
She would get a brooch made of it.
His vows pulled out all her sinews.
He showed her how to make a love-knot.
Her vows put his eyes in formalin.
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall,
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop.
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage,
In the morning they wore each other’s face."
(via fleurishes)
He’s Just Not That Into You
File under: Things I need to start taking to heart
It’s nice to be wanted, hypothetically speaking.
I want to snuggle with you. I’d like to lie on you and put my head on your shoulder and breathe in the same rhythm that you’re breathing. I want to use one of my hands to rub your head, down to your neck, then to your arm, and then hold your hand. I’d like to rest my other hand on your hipbone, which is my favorite part of your body because it’s a straight and bony hip, nothing like my curvy, soft one.
I’d like to stay there long enough so that our awkwardness goes away. I’d like to feel you give into the moment. Don’t ask yourself if this is too intimate. Don’t worry about sending me signals that you like me too much. Don’t think about what will happen with us tomorrow. Stop wondering if your team is winning and how much longer it will be until I get off of you so you can turn the game on.
Make a joke after a few moments of peace, one of those jokes that isn’t funny because of its sharp wit, but funny because it’s a comment on our current state, designed to make both of us ease further into the bubble of each other that we’re currently floating in. You could say something about how I’m as pale as the sheets, or how your pet is staring at us from the corner, or how the lady upstairs is walking like an elephant. And we’ll laugh together. Not the laugh that we shared in the bar with our friends. Not the laugh that comes when you watch an episode of Flight Of The Conchords. Not the laugh that you force when your boss says something mean. This will be the laugh that you saved just for me, the one that’s vulnerable and soft and sweet, because that’s how you’re feeling towards me right now. You won’t think about what I said last week that made you angry. You won’t feel guilty for that thing you did that I would be upset about if I knew. You won’t plan what you’re having for dinner tonight. You will soak the right now of this up. Our moment.
I’d like you to play with my hair. Don’t pat my head with a flat hand, put your fingers under my hair, on my scalp, and then run them through my hair like it’s a waterfall. Wrap both of your arms around me and give me a long, tight squeeze, the kind where in the last second, I need to inhale but I can’t. Then I’d like you to close your eyes, so I can prop myself over your face and study your features freely without you looking back at me. I want to kiss your jaw line, fondle your earlobes, sweep my cheek against yours. I want to stroke the slope of your nose and your eyelids and admire your eyelashes.
I’d like you to run your thumb over my lips. Cup my face with both of your hands. And I want you to kiss me. This will be a kiss that liquefies from light to deep and then back to light. A seemingly endless kiss that doesn’t lead to anything else. It doesn’t need to. We’ll share it simply to feel the warmth that it brings on its own. Then I want you to roll me over. Lie on top of me and hold our arms over our heads so that I can feel all of your weight, strong and heavy and masculine.
via Thought Catalog
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.-Pablo Neruda
