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Midge: “Are you afraid of me ‘cause I talk to my shoes? Some men find that wildly attractive.”

Lenny: “I think there are many things about you that men would find wildly attractive.”

—-

Midge: “What, I’m not important enough to go through all that trouble for?”

Lenny: “You’re more important than God.”

Midge: “You paid attention.”

Lenny: “To you?”

Lenny: “Always.”

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Ezra Koenig, Vampire Weekend (via awkwardbeyondhope)

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Travel and tell no one. Live a true love story and tell no one. Live happily and tell no one. People ruin beautiful things.

Khalil Gibran

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a very quick poem i just wrote, made from excerpts of texts my mum has sent me this year.

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donna tartt: literally writes an entire 600 page book about how it can be dangerous to do things just for the aesthetic

us, already making pinterest boards: oh to be a classics student in vermont in the 80s drinking whiskey from a teacup and occasionally murdering people 

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People be like “my life’s like a movie”

Yeah mine's a documentary of mental illness 😌

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hai i lava u

I just saw this and I just wanted to say: “I would erupt for you” 🥹🤎

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midnights (inspired by taylor swift's midnights)

i. after dark

like a long lost home my entire life comes crowding itself into its deep indigo ribs until a crescendo of thoughts threatens to split open my skull. tossing, turning, pacing, trembling— at war with the quiescence ensconced on the walls. a thousand ships fades into view, each begging for a name in my secret sky before sailing away into oblivion. i write their elegies in invisible ink on my wrists and let the stars kiss them good night. 

ii. pause 

drops of neptune dapple the sheets, a candle burns meekly on the corner illuminating a row of black-spined books. smoke wings unfurled, gone are the phantoms that nip my ankles everywhere i go. one april night tucked away from the languishing world, i slipped through the back door and floated in space. 

iii. haunted 

the moon's marmoreal gaze, flickers of a familiar face, and long mental corridors that only lead to burning rooms. they said escape is for those who know what they're running from but you're a fool to think naming your beast could tame them. i've been in the labyrinth long enough for it to build itself under my skin.  

iv. a wisp of smoke 

the summer when it dawned on me that i’m no longer thinking of you, i was sitting on the balcony of a hotel watching the wind ruffle the surface of the charcoal sea. it felt strange, almost like committing a cardinal sin to find no traces of you in me. i remember the grief, the solace that came shortly after, but most of all the guilt— because where do i lay to rest the habit of using every lovely thing i see like gentle waves breaking softly towards the shore as a metaphor for you? 

v. the curse of icarus 

i had my eyes on the sky ever since i can remember, children born in cages do. the first time i stood on the parapet with wings of songs and foxing pages i was a young god, not even a shower of flaming arrows can strike me down. i casted one last look at the lighthouse that witnessed all the shipwrecks that marked me, took a leap, and soared. but the sun did not kiss me that day. i lived past the end of the myth. too many seasons have come and gone and lately i find myself replaying the memory over and over. a new sun calls at 22 and i don't know if i'll make it again this time. the curse of icarus still thrums in my veins. 

vi. abandoned bridges 

i think about the friends that simply drifted too far, a love forever trapped in scents and photographs. there's a romantic kind of melancholy in the way my hands run over the shapes of their names. it reminds me of the city i grew up in but don't live in anymore— the streets, the landmarks, the houses that all look the same but no longer feel the same (because these things are as continually altered by time as we are). i miss them sometimes but the feeling doesn't endure as much as i think i want it to. it was over the day we promised to see each other again.

vii. december night

the anticipation, the holding back, the knowing smile. you followed me to the stairs and there we agreed to try again. 

tunnel vision, flushed cheeks, drunk on your whiskey eyes. there in the dim space i memorized the details of your face.

the first kiss, the ecstasy, bloodshot eyes. you were unconsciously tracing the veins on my wrist when i told you i'd be spending Christmas in the country. 

paling sky, in the balcony, black coffee. a sacred beginning was writing itself in the morning mist. 

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Micah Nemerever, "These Violent Delights"

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imagine being the first ancient person to realize that the ocean and their tears taste the same. imagine realizing that your sorrow and the waves share a taste. i wouldve gone crazy

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some people write poetry solely so that fragments of it can be used on aesthetic posts on the average dark academia tumblr and it shows. good poetry, genuinely good lyricism like that of margaret atwood, imtiaz dharker, agha shahid ali and ocean vuong needs heart, needs actual sincerity. but nowadays we have any random person writing "oranges persimmons girlhood is a disease cannibalism is love I am my mother's shadow soup love witchcraft" and they are promoted like the second coming of christ. love being a hater of such poems. hollow, insincere fake deep imagery does nothing for me.

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apparently no one was paying attention in middle school language arts when we learned what a fucking protagonist was

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Nicknames: when you shorten someone’s name affectionately

Nicholasnames: when you elongate someone’s name affectionately

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Grandmas were so right about puzzles and knitting and crocheting and solitaire and reading slow and slippers and baking and watching deer in the backyard send post

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HELPPPPPP