March 2012
25 posts
jonathanpham:
Yuna | Coffee
February 2012
34 posts
“contiguous, adj.
I felt silly for even mentioning it, but once I did, I knew I...”
– The Lover’s Dictionary, David Levithan
“At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face...”
– Rumi (via cigrette)
“I don’t know, there’s something about you. Say there’s an hourglass: the sand’s...”
– Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase
“I love everything about this little street. The lives that used to be lived...”
– Prague, Arthur Phillips
“It persistently rises to the surface of your memory — that afternoon when...”
– Prague, Arthur Phillips
“‘Some days,’ Mammy said in a hoarse voice, ‘I listen to that...”
– A Thousand Splendid Suns, Khaled Hosseini
trying-to-find-the-inbetween:
The most beautiful...
“The flesh is easy to satisfy. It’s the heart that is insatiable, the heart that...”
– Irène Némirovsky, Fire in the Blood, p. 127 (via intracoastal-wanderings)
“I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.”
– Virginia Woolf (via acraeus)
coffeeislovely:
Night Bus (Acoustic) -Lucy Rose
ranchdressingroom:
When I think about books I touch my shelf.
i smell your kisses on my hands i swear it — i can could map the pores from your face and the outline of your lips within my fingerprints your breath just a breath away
“In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni … We go wandering at night and are...”
– Latin palindrome (via hateshiploveship)
am i supposed to feel sorry for myself? as if i do not know what is wrong and i should pity how lowly that feels? because i do not know what is wrong and i do feel this pathetic ambiguity but that must not keep you from shying away, does it? i try. i tell you, i beg you to listen. i am trying. when someone strays from the trail, most often they become lost, correct? i have not lingered an inch...
i feel like i am divided by sections thin parts of me dotted black lines sometimes connecting sometimes not
if there was a word for a whole body phrenology i would like it to describe me maybe i like the word “cavles”
feel my lump there what does it mean to you? see a crevice, no you don’t all i see are sinking concavenesses
when one steps out naked in the dead of winter and the wind rushes toward them as if billions of ice particles were stabbing at their’s skin and they feels it penetrate through their pores, hoping it would not come out the other side of their body because then they would know they are solid.
He and I alway had to physically touch, as if we were afraid we were going to lose each other. Me clutching a bit of his shirt, his hand around my waist, fingers rubbing elbows. I needed to feel him, we were so insecure about that. If I wasn’t in his sight and I wasn’t touching him, he would wildly turn around and search for me even if I was right behind him. We were like a stub of a...
he doesn’t mind standing in the kiddie pool, waiting for me to overflow my shallow mud with something more cleansing, like minted water. peppermint tea. apple juice. a new personality. he doesn’t mind because he doesn’t know me and everything is slightly bizarre but happy in the first couple months and i am not scared to wait for him to find out i am not happy and i won’t...
i’m not tired, but my hurt is tied to my ankles and drags along wherever i go like in that old movie i saw, where a little black boy was dragged by a car with the rope around his neck. i want to cry. can i say i should be happy? can i say i think of burrowing under large cites and creating a gaping hole that collapses all the buildings, all the cars and sidewalks and benches and litter and...
“Today you became a yesterday, when once you were a tomorrow.”
– I Wrote This For You
“It’s like counting the number of tiles on the ceiling or the stars in the sky....”
– Charley Brooke
“Something real, cool and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday...”
– Charlotte Bronte, Shirley (via trua)
veiled
chambered in a lock
body moulds
to the shape of the keyhole
touch jagged edges
sit alone in an hourglass
let it rain
someone’s markered your words
all over the floor
thank goodness you are skating
on a whiteboard
and your feet laced to dry erasers
To be honest, I don’t know how it feels to die.
Puncture with a needle, intended for the threading bag but veered off course like a lion suddenly spotting a wounded zebra. See if there is enough power to stitch the hand up, if there is no pain. Is there? There is, but keep going anyway. Flesh, blood, human. Aliveness. Feel something other than the garbage inside, meant to be thrown out but too ghastly to even be near it. It has been too long....