— Albert Camus (via hellanne)
3:05 pm 485 notes
— Jane Austen, Emma (via larmoyante)
1:46 pm 970 notes
— Carson McCullers (via vvolare)
(via ceaset0begin)
12:11 pm 9,653 notes
— Albert Camus (via hellanne)
12:10 pm 485 notes
Today I receive a postcard of
a blue guitar. Here snow falls with wings,
tumbling in its feathered body, melting
on the window glass. How each evening becomes
another beautiful woman holding
the color of expensive sapphires
against her throat, I’ll never know.
It is an ordinary clarity.
So then was it music?
Something like love or
words, a sentimental moment once
years ago, that blue sky?
How soon the sky and I have grown apart.
On the postcard, an old man hangs
half-dead, strung over his instrument, and what
I have imagined is half-dead, too. Our bones
end hollow, sky blue; the flute comes untuned.
— “All Distance,” Erin Belieu (via commovente)
(via commovente)
12:08 pm 293 notes
We had an innocence no one dared taint,
a naivety that bloomed like flowers in our fists.
Summer evenings were spent climbing
cherry blossom trees where you pressed petals
gently into my palms like a secret,
like the pinky promises we made,
the legal oaths we swore we would keep.
Yet the whole world was lurking beneath our sun spun mornings,
waiting for the right moment to come out
and split the light in two.
We didn’t know that Monday was a day to dread,
a bad omen. That it’s considered unacceptable to go
to the movies alone. That society thrives on gold coins
and little sheets of paper that can buy you status and power.
No. We existed in the nymphet innocence of childhood,
making small ripples in the lake with our toes,
picking petals from small purple flowers and
chanting ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ —
pretending that we actually had an idea
of what that silly word meant.
— atomiclanterns, “A Poem for my Eight Year Old Self” (via atomiclanterns)
12:08 pm 52 notes
