Soft arms
Sewn to sheets
In the afternoon sun,
Are no more significant
Than the slurs that
Slipped out of a body
Carried by drunk, staggering
Legs.

I am small hands,
the last icicle in spring,
yellow bruises on a lover’s neck,
the pit
of a peach.

I love you.

Every morning and every evening. Every minute in between.
Every rainfall, every gust of wind, every breath of sun.
Every ticking clock, every beat of music.
Every falling eyelash.
Every honest sigh, every lie.
Every book read.
Every late-afternoon coffee.
Every failed attempt at…

"

If I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside

on my fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.

"

Charles Bukowski 

(via wah-mos)

52

It was beautiful.

I’ve told you too much. Am I still as interesting as I was before, when I was something to discover?

Sighs surrounded by moonlight, fumbling in the dark, reaching. Soft.

Open mouth, lips drawn, ready for the kill.

Fear caused the difficulty.

I regret wearing those shoes. As silly as that sounds.

“Fuck love.” Fuck humanity.

I wanted to kiss you then. But my head was too heavy. And the wine was coursing through my blood. And I would have missed and been embarrassed. And I’m sorry for that.

Your hands are perfect. I said what I did because I was nervous.

(These are all separate thoughts)

76-

Just-
just, wait.

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The shape of your mouth inked in bruises across my neck.

Perfect teeth.
Soft skin.
Messy sounds.

“You taste like rum.”
“You taste like Boston cream pie.”

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typewriterblues:

Variation On The Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only.

One of my very favorite authors/poets.

(via fara-nuna)