altairandci

[altairandci]

sappho, fragment 83

love, lay me down under grass & sunlight, and touch me [right here] and here and here. where the ache & hurt have gone to nest.

[(now again)] my fingers will find yours, tangle & sweeten the air. and the birds will cry [for] us alone.

[altairandci]

Listen to the earth in simple, measured song;

Hold out your palm for every drop, it may not sing for long-

The hissing leaves, the rustling creek, and birds that swirl and dive.

Life is brief, my dear,

so while you have it - be alive.

- F.J. Akkerman

[altairandci]

I quieted my life

Until the only thing I could hear

Was the sound that blood makes in your body When you're still enough and listen And the tapping of rain on the windowsill And the simmer of sage leaves as they coil The familiar clicking of a keyboard And the steeliness of a frigid afternoon

Each of these an encryption Reminding me what matters

Telling me where to go

— Brianna Wiest

[altairandci]

It's quiet here between the trees

And I can almost feel

The weight of all the centuries

Begin to crack and peel.

I breathe and re-breathe oxygen,

What was and what will be,

And for a moment as I walk

It's just the earth and me.

-Ellis Nightingale

[altairandci]

Listen closely,

even the trees exhale their own sweet love songs that roll off their boughs and echo out to all of creation.

Love is always in the air.

-Cristen Rodgers

[altairandci]

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

-E. E. Cummings, 1894 - 1962

[altairandci]

"There's something daring about holding eye contact because it's no longer a "my eyes fell on you by accident", but rather something else."

- March 17, 2014 - a sentence from my diary

[altairandci]

"Suddenly you're ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you're alive and it's spectacular."

- Joseph Campbell

[altairandci]

"You're important to me. I think if there's anything that will last forever, it's that. Whether we separate, stay in touch or rarely speak again, you will always be that little someone I really do care for, that I would sacrifice everything for to protect and keep safe."

— Beau Taplin, "The Promise"

[altairandci]

"I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones."

— Franz Kafka

[altairandci]

Art and love are the same thing: It's the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.

- Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live:85% of a True Story

[altairandci]

My dear,

Find what you love and let it kill you.

Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.

For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it's much better to be killed by a lover.

- Falsely yours // Charles Bukowski

[altairandci]

"I remember when your eyes said love loudly"

- Charles Bukowski

[altairandci]

"You're the only person I've ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing."

- Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out

[altairandci]

Oh, darling muse - he would have fought the fates for you.

Poets, they can be soldiers, too.

All art is war, all battles bright; of all he couldn't save, he wrote into sunlight I p.d

[altairandci]

Hands are unbearably beautiful.

They hold on to things.

They let things go.

Mary Ruefle, from 'The Cart', Selected Poems

[altairandci]

"all my grief says the same thing: this isn't how it's supposed to be. this isn't how it's supposed to be. and the world laughs.

holds my hope by the throat. says:

but this is how it is"

- Fortesa Latifi