your love is like Russian:
i don’t understand it,
but i like the way it sounds.
i know that if i listened long enough,
i could learn to speak it,
and eventually, to mean what i say. — Mindy Nettifee, “ЛЮБИМАЯ” (via aurelle)
(Source: fleurishes, via dogplant)
(Source: likeafieldmouse, via hopefully-beautiful-deactivated)
They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via shadowtruthvitality)
(Source: vanished, via darkmedeia)
(Source: connotativewords, via moshimoshhi)
It’s not that I mourn because you left, but rather because I am still here.
the girl who cried UFO: old mattress -
We’d be perfect for each other but we’re in the wrong bodies;
we’d be perfect for each other but we’re in the wrong lives.
And I hate it but I can’t help but want to kiss you
every single time I look into your eyes.
And I lay there in your bed and I wonder what I’m doing,
and I lay there in your…
I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again. — Anaïs Nin, Fire (via thepoetandthesiren)
(Source: larmoyante, via thepoetandthesiren)
Harry Mulisch, The Discovery of Heaven
(Source: princess-naynay, via ashtheblueeyedpoet)
Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m dreaming my dreams
or yours, or just leaning back quiescent in
somebody’s brain. It’s only when I feel calm or glad
or even afraid that I know I’m asleep.
—Mary Rose O’Reilly, from “The Crossing” in Half Wild: Poems (Louisiana State University Press, 2006)
Am I “distant”? I would not say so. I suppose I am cleverly untouched. Most ironically. — Virginia Woolf; from a diary entry dated 20 March 1933. (via permenantheadamage)
(Source: anorsexic, via permenantheadamage-deactivated2)