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galaxy of stars a million little bright lights born of seed and earth

blooming in moonbeams constellations slowly climb reaching for the sky

ephemeral bliss sweet taste of spring and solace carried with a breeze

- Cora Finch

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let me tell you how it feels to be this soft

it’s like snowflakes whispering through windowpanes. the jaws of summer slackening at the sight of autumn leaves. it’s like skin patted fresh and pink from the shower. like devouring the cotton candy tongue of a lover. it’s pillow lips, and it’s hands tiptoeing under flannel. it’s like daylight kissing a park bench at golden hour. an eyelash on a cheek and the thumb that grants the wish. it’s peony petals. swallowed butterflies. it’s warm ocean ripples ebbing to the pulse of your ankles. it’s also like a breath caught in the throat. a pulling apart—pulpy—like the segments of a citrus. a knife through room temperature butter. the bend of a rib. a frostbite. a slow burn. it’s like salty fingers dipping into open wounds. the truth is, it hurts when you are this soft. but you bloom as easily as you bruise. you bruise so soft you become unbreakable.

- Cora Finch

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The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923

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Moth

I rise with the tide and set with the sun. In the interim, I survive on bitter crumbs, sour cherries, and the artificial sweet of past and almost loves. I tell myself I am not hungry, just bored. I close my eyes, imagine being satisfied deep in the crescent core of my belly. I think I am still soft in places like the edge of the ocean, the flutter of a heart-wing, perhaps most when I am being held closest to the blue of the flame. It’s where I wait for you.

I wait…and I wait… Patient as the moon. Sleep comes, and I dream myself full.

- Cora Finch

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just found out that “wish you were here” in persian is ‘jāy-e shomā khālīst’ which means “your place is empty” and it felt like being stabbed in the heart 37 times

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Sara Luisa Kirk, from "Begin here,"

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some Carolina lyrics I love

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Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing

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– Audrey Hepburn

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asystole

There should be current inside those walls a spark a charge something shockable Should be light beaming from those windows a flicker a gleam a beacon of hope Should be a sound apart from silence a beep, a beat, a thump, a pump a rhythm, a flutter a shutter, a squeeze There should be a life a will a breath and another There should be a heart alive with red but there is only talk of death

- Cora Finch

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after the rain

trees flex their weather-hardened limbs wild irises swoon at the sight the hummingbird makes a meal of a bleeding heart and mine skips to the gentle hum of you

- Cora Finch

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“Let everything happen to you: Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Go to the Limits of Your Longing

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— Franz Kafka, from Letters to Milena (via lumamonchtuna)

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The cosmic reverb of a kiss can be felt one hundred lightyears into the future where it is printed on the wings of a monarch whose flutter topples a stack of dominoes that cause a record player to skip and everyone scrambles for a seat but we are the last two left on our feet and we do more than make the best of an awkward situation we click a pair of satellite souls suddenly thrust into each other’s orbit effortlessly synchronizing and softly spinning into a series of small steps that swiftly amount to a giant leap deep into the uncharted waters of a unified verse where all the stars have aligned and gravity loses its hold and somehow we still fall.

- Cora Finch

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Sara Teasdale, from The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale; "Song,"

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The one where I confess that I am unapologetically soft

how my heartbeat mimics the wind, invisible but far-reaching. With gossamer fingers I braid my hair, brew the tea, knead the bread. On obsidian nights, I gather dried lavender and listen for the willow. I have cradled newborn heads on the crest of my collarbone patched wounds with rose petal kisses, unwound the deepest of aches with worn-out denim and bare skin. I have carried the dead, cried my weight in tears. I am soft, and my hands are small but I would hold the sun for you, blister ‘til you no longer wish to be a burn. I am soft, and my voice is softer. It was made to breathe poems into the scruff of your neck to lay the ghosts of your worst fears to rest eternal. I am soft, and we are only a moment but my love will linger long after the willow stops weeping.

- Cora Finch

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