“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
— Anaïs Nin
“Your iPhone pocket-called me the other day.
You were walking.
I could hear your legs moving.
I was in your pants, after all, with the phone.
Swip swip. Swip swip. Swip swip.
Very rhythmic. Soothing. I listened in for a while. I was hoping for a scrap of inappropriate conversation.
I like to overhear things that hurt me.
I got nothing.
Just legs.
You were just going somewhere.”

therealkatiewest:

February 20, 2014

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.” 
― Anaïs Nin

I give myself five days to forget you.
on the first day I rust.
on the second I wilt.
on the third day I sit with friends but I think about your tongue.
I clean my room on the fourth day. I clean my body on the fourth day.
I try to replace your scent on the fourth day. 
the fifth day, I adorn myself like the mouth of an inmate.
A wedding singer dressed in borrowed gold.
The midas of cheap metal.
tinsel in the middle of summer.
crevice glitter, two days after the party.
I glow the way unwanted things do,
a neon sign that reads;
come, I still taste like someone else’s mouth.
— Warsan Shire
“I don’t remember
lighting this cigarette
and I don’t remember
if I’m here alone
or waiting for someone.”
—  Leonard Cohen
“Lately, the world swivels at will and I find I shut my eyes tight.”
— Virginia Woolf, in an excerpt from “Selected Diaries
“I have been ignored by prettier women than you, but none who carried the heavy pitchers of silence so far, without spilling a drop.”
— Jeffrey McDaniel in an excerpt from “Letter to the Woman Who Stopped Writing Me Back”

Prelude

Is it the long dry grass that is so erotic,
waving about us with hair-fine fronds of straw,
with feathery flourishes of seed, inviting us
to cling together, fall, roll into it
blind and gasping, smothered by stalks and hair,
pollen and each other’s tongues on our hot faces?
Then imagine if the summer rain were to come,
heavy drops hissing through the warm air,
a sluice on our wet bodies, plastering us with strands of delicious grass; a hum in our ears

We walk a yard apart, talking
of literature and of botany.
We have known each other, remotely, for nineteen years.

Fleur Adcock

“Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.”
— Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters