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#nostalgia poem
lovepowerpoetry · 1 year
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berry
Berry blue memories pressed between pages of a book you gave me- unread
Stained like my carpet freshman year of college where we played spin the bottle,
just the two of us with blackberry wine on our breath
Sitting three pages apart
Refusing to kiss
Or laugh
We look at eachother that way and you just sigh
I grow old in ways now
Wanting my lovers to beg
For anything at all,
at all,
At all
Love is mourning, painful and tired
Ached over breaths on sheets
Unfurled at the edges
But tight like my fists
Knuckles brazen
Sometimes all I think about
The way you used to sigh
So we would kiss other people other times
Until it hurt so good
But you and I
We’d just sit alone in my apartment
In that corner under the stairs
Spinning green glass in the blurred light of my tv
Playing some static weather program
Snow is falling outside
I play ‘Raspberry Beret’
but you don’t know Prince
Don’t know shit else just
songs from films and punk rock
You look at me that way, like a million times before
And like a million times before I return glances
At all, we refuse to kiss or laugh or touch at all, at all
Angst is agony is sacrifice is more
And so you spend another night
Laying beside me on the floor
Writing poems about me
And emailing them to me to critique
I dye my hair about it
One of those times we play
You forget which bottle is full
And so
Your love lives vicariously through a plum colored circle on my brown carpet
Unremoveable even by dish soap
At all, permanent long after we don’t know eachother at all, at all
You used to give me books for gifts
And I would picture myself
Thumbing through the pages
In a coffee shop
waiting for someone else to sit down
Someone I love, someone else at all
Because it is easier that way
Missing you vicariously through
Never reading those books
You were one of those people
Never forgot a birthday, never forgot a moment
Pressed between lips
Three pages apart
You kiss me vicariously through
Other people
It hurts so good
At all, we don’t love eachother at all, at all
I never get my security deposit back
I never forget your birthday
I never read your books
I never think about you
At all, at all, at all
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lucidloving · 30 days
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Girlpool—Before the World Was Big // memorial bench quoting Toni Morrison's Sula // @inanotherunivrse // Iain S. Thomas, I Wrote This For You // Zadie Smith, Swing Time // Fall Out Boy—The Kids Aren't Alright // Audrey Emmett // Mikko Harvey, "For M" // Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi) // Langston Hughes, "Poem"
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conjcosby · 6 months
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👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆My Heart Leaps Up by William Wordsworth ▫ Please enjoy this poem about nostalgia. 😊🙏 #nostalgiapoet #nostalgiapoets #nostalgiapoetry #nostalgiapoem #poet #poets #poetry #poem #video #post #poetvideo #poetsvideo #poetryvideo #poemvideo #poetpost #poetspost #poetrypost #poempost #poetoftheday #poetsoftheday #poetryoftheday #poemoftheday #poetoftheweek #poetsoftheweek #poetryoftheweek #poemoftheweek #poetoftheworld #poetsoftheworld #poetryoftheworld #poemoftheworld
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see-the-letters · 18 days
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“Pero al final, uno necesita más coraje para vivir que para quitarse la vida”
— Albert Camus.
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catmint1 · 1 year
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Grief will keep you reaching back / for what is not there
Adrianne Kalfopoulou, “Poem in Pieces, a Log,” A History of Too Much
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loveisrootedinme · 5 months
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c0unterclockwise · 8 months
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One of my favourite memories is fishing for catfish on the pier with my father. I don't think I caught more than a tree root, and when the mosquitos got too violent we went inside and watched the news.
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becckks · 1 year
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Whatever happened to 2014 Tumblr... miss her
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noname-404s-blog · 10 months
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fromdarzaitoleeza · 8 months
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William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury/from Letters of Summer Past (Listy TamtegoLata) VI
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fuckingwhateverdude · 2 months
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2.27.24
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rosariumpartone · 1 year
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quote from Pan’s Flute ⚜︎
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leechteethwrites · 7 days
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a piece of something i wrote
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jayvespertine · 2 years
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— Major Lazer, Justin Bieber, MØ; Cold Water
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loveisrootedinme · 3 months
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c0unterclockwise · 6 months
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It's sometime in the evening and I am praying bare-chested to the stairway up to my childhood bedroom, to the girl I might have been to come take my hand in hers and pull me somewhere I can hear the crickets.
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