my cats about to kiss at a tea party

(Source: callistojewelry)

there is a women in China holding a black umbrella so she
won’t taste the salt of the rain when the sky begins to weep,

there is a 17 year old girl who smells like pomegranates and has summer air tight on her naked skin, wrapping around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who won’t make it past tomorrow,

there is a young man, who buys yellow flowers for the woman
in apartment 84B, who learned braille when he realized she
couldn’t read his poetry about her white neck and mint eyes

there are people watching films,
making love for the first time, opening mail with the
heading of ‘i miss you’, cooking noodles with
organic spices and red sauces, buying lemon detergent,
ignoring ‘do not smoke’ signs, painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses, chewing
the words ‘i love you’ over and over again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the telephone,
reading this poem

someone is thinking
i’m alone
someone finally understands
they never really

― poems from my uncles graves (via vzhod)

(Source: irynka)

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of “Old Battersea Bridge.”
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”
somewhere else I am saying
“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
Bob Hicok, ”Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem” (via focloir)

(Source: somstory)

(Source: wildsunshine)

Maybe I’m just really tired, but I have been thinking — what is so great about not giving a crap? Sometimes I feel the need to over analyze and filter myself, like “oh I should probably wait a bit to send that text reply so I don’t seem too eager” or “I want to talk to this person, but I feel like I am probably just going to annoy them”. But honestly, what’s wrong with talking to someone when you want to talk to them, asking them to hang out when you want to hang out, giving a long and detailed reply when you have a lot to say?

I feel like relationships (including friendships) where you don’t know the person super well can turn into this struggle to play it cool and pretend you don’t really care. But I’ll admit it: I care what people think. I want people to like me. If I think you’re cool, I want to talk to you. It’s exhausting having to filter everything. So I am just going to continue caring — but maybe stop caring so much whether that makes me seem annoying/desperate/whatever other anxieties seem to come of it. Because if my authentic, unfiltered self is annoying to someone, then maybe it’s good to figure that out sooner than later anyway.




meditation class


Henri Martin (French, 1860-1943), Les peupliers à Labastide-du-Vert. Oil on board, 45.7 x 33 cm.

(Source: live-laugh-love-recovery)