fundamentallycold

[fundamentallycold]

(Were we always doomed to suck the sweetness out of nostalgia? Is there anything left to discover?)

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[fundamentallycold]

“What if it’s my desire that lengthens the night? / How the letters I write you cool once they leave my hands. / How the world holds itself so still in the frost, waiting.”

— — Rachel Mennies, from “November 18, 2016,” The Naomi Letters

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I wake up with claw shaped hands,

Keep reading

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I was a foregone conclusion like that poor woman who thought, ‘Shall I go on?’ I stood in the doorway as if it might burn.

— Sarah J. Sloat, from Hotel Almighty

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Scultura di Andrea Salvatori

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all the things that i am and am not

i am the first rain of may that your mom probably described as miraculous i am a packet of mints kept in your back pocket i am a white shirt, all tattered and torn, that you still wear anyway i am a song from a sad playlist that you made for the girl who broke your heart i am a bookmark stuck at page 82 of a book you’ve probably forgotten about i am the soft graze of grass when you stroll across the field at night i am an unread email from your inbox that you never delete i am the 2-hour drive from your workplace to home i am the first sip of water in the morning that you absentmindedly drink i am a burning cigarette right between your teeth i am an awkward pause between the two stanzas of the first poem you wrote

i am multiple things at once but i am not and will never be a chewing gum that you can play with your tongue and spit-out when there’s no more flavor that can satiate your extreme hunger

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on soulmates

f. scott fitzgerald / friedrich nietzsche / florence and the machine / andrea dworkin / kiersten white / euripides / audre lorde / phillip pullmann / bob hicok

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“Shame, shame was all there was in me. Every reunion with you made me ashamed. Can you understand that? Invariably I said to myself: “I can give you nothing, nothing at all; my gold turns to coal when I hand it to you, and I become poor in the process.””

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke and Andreas-Salomé: A Love Story in Letters

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january 25, 2011 // part five // jay brooks

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Today my discover weekly playlist wants me only to listen to classical music. Today that is okay. Today I am lying on my bed listening to "the latitude of love" and thinking about where we keep love in our bodies. How it felt inside of car washes with the music turned all the way up. How people pull out guitars at parties, how my best friend looked over FaceTime, how in the summer my house stops using the back door because it would bother the honeybees.

If the latitude of love is a place, it is a palm. Or it is the smile wrinkles. Or it is the arch of your neck while you're laughing. If the latitude of love is a time, it is beaches and hikes and curling up at home and touching her for the first time. It is watching birds with you and it is making breakfast and it is that each sunset still feels supernatural and that each sunrise still feels holy. It is the end of an eclipse and it is the spare items you tuck to hold your page in library books and it is childhood swings.

If love is a moment. It is my mother, asking me to describe this rainbow, because we are apart, and she wants to picture my life full of color. It is splitting a tangerine. It is calling home - the one you made from your own hard work and finding and suffering. It is her, leaning over the sink, hair dye in foils, texting me about avatar the last Airbender. It is having lost you, and still knowing your favorite food.

Today is the first day I have been able to wear a sundress. It's spring and my life is rotating, ever so slowly, so that the latitude of love comes back into my hands again.

I am so in love with the world, even when the sun of my heart is unresting. I am constantly struck by how much love I was forgetting. It is not just a birthday present. It is that skinned knees heal. It is that broken bones will eventually mend. It is when, in the dark dark night, birds still sing.

You are not alone, after all, no matter how lost you are feeling. Me and the moon and the stars are all listening. The latitude of love will come back to you. And how wonderful it will be, to be alive on that morning.

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Oh, to own a quaint and well kept apartment in the centre of a romantic city, to have art clinging to every surface to an excessive degree, to be able to type nuanced and well thought essays on my typewriter while gazing down to the bustling streets below, to have small notebooks of poetry scattered across my home, to have bottomless coffee everyday, to have a gentle partner to share my life with.

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i want to pull apart my ribs,

rip the skin and fatty flesh away from bone,

pry my brain from the skull protecting it and lock it away in a box, never to open it again.

nothing is mine anymore; youve touched everywhere and claimed them for your own. take them, they mean nothing without you

~im yours

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I fall apart. My heart a cracked vase with no gold to fill all the space; screaming. I am manic and you are unsure what to say.

I am whispering under the blankets between hyperventilation and shallow breaths; “I am broken. Broken. Completely fucking shattered.”

Your touch leads me to burst; I am a dam that can no longer contain the raging water behind concrete curtain eyes.

You hold me tight and the weight of your body helps get rid of the float away feelings I cannot control. The ones that feel like “jump” and only bring about coffin black colored endings.

ReBecca DeFazio

More Than a Flower

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poem for u 

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Louise Glück, from “Nest”, Poems 1962-2012

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Now it’s too late to back out. You’ve bitten into the fruit

The poison is in your mouth. You either keep eating or let the poison kill you slowly.

It’s either ride or die.

Do you take the plunge?