freeparadise:

Lost In Translation
“I love them in museums, on buses, sitting compact
in trains and on airplanes, running their fingers
through their hair, drunk at parties, stumbling home,
long-limbed and full of awkward grace, boys, yes,
lay on top of me or lay beside me, breathe light into
my ear. I love them angry and confrontational or soft
and philosophical. I want to curl up inside of them,
read their palms, make them pasta and bread
from scratch. I love them kissing me in the backseat
of a taxi cab or alone on the street corner, lost,
trying to find their way home. I love their throats,
their knobby elbows, their spines beneath a soft
cotton shirt. I love them at home, poised readily
over my Keurig, asking which flavor, if I want sugar.
I love their hands in my hair, undoing the braid,
fingernails to my scalp, yes, more, please don’t stop.
I love them in doorways, at the grocery store among
the cereals and unpronounceable cheeses; I love them
at night, pale shadows under lampposts, walking
away from me and into the men they’re going to be.”
Kristina Haynes, “Boys”  (via perfect)
deadsymmetry:

Uzel Scotus
glowe-job:

glow ||| Radioactive
“All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eight, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and ever procrastination, every word, all of it.”
Joan Didion,Goodbye to All That” (via commovente)

melisaki:

West Stockbridge
photo by Ormond Gigli, 1964
“How does this happen? To fall in love and be disassembled.”
— Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient (via larmoyante)
teen suicide - cop graveyard
dt