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“The divine departure. I fall. I fall into darkness after the collision with pain, and after pain the divine departure.”

— Anaïs Nin, from House of Incest

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I do not know you yet but I dream of you sometimes.

Of soft hair tickling my cheek when you bend down to kiss me, of warm breath caressing my lips when you smile instead.

I think of your hands, sleek and beautiful, burying themselves into the secrets of my body. I think of your mouth, stretched wide with happiness as you try not to laugh at another one of my clumsy idiosyncrasies. Your arms reaching out to steady me when I trip over my own two feet again. Your shining eyes of soft wonder when I finally allow you to look upon the hundredth image I painted of you.

I do not know you yet but I think of you when I am happy. Of your unquestioning faith and acceptance, of your share in my joy.

I think of the smell of coffee in the air when I make you breakfast at 5am. I think of soft sunlight kissing your throat as you lean against the windowsill and read me another passage from the beloved book we've both scoured through a thousand times.

I think of fulfillment when I think of you. A life of waking up with your head tucked into the crook of my shoulder, with your body draped carelessly across mine. A life where I don't fear daybreak or moonrise, a life where you are not so alien anymore for I am alien with you.

I think of me when I think of you. You, my heart. And I, yours.

I do not know you yet but I dream of you.

And until our threads are woven back together again, that will have to be enough.

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If you must die, I'll envy even the earth that wraps around your body.

What is a vow to a woman's love?

It's a dark and shiny place but with you, my dear, I'm safe and we're a million miles away.

There's no thing I'd keep from you.

[I cannot live without you.]

Love, I have never known the tenderness of your quivering lips; the redness in your eyes softened my ever hardened heart. What is a vow to a man's love? His breath upon my neck, his mouth christening my hands. I see ridges of grief that run along his back and a weight upon his weary shoulders I wish I could steal. His forehead kisses mine and again I wonder, what is a vow to the arms of the man I have loved? What is a vow to his teeth upon my skin and his heart against my own? I am a slave to the tremble in his voice, my own hands shackled my soul to the worship of his footsteps; like water seeps into the earth, like the bones of old disintegrate underneath - I am intertwined, I am scattered, I am bound.

A crown of daisies in his hair, and then my fingers. To love him was to know life. I haven't lived in years.

- Albert Camus, State of Seige; [Unknown]; Karen O, The Moon Song; @clxec, original excerpts.

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"It is a book about two terrible people."

"Why would you read such a thing?"

"I rather like terrible people. Does not everyone only ever wish to be loved? Wanted? Only the truly heartless do not care for it.

A poet once said that the corruption begins with the mouth, the wanting. That the first poem in the world was 'I want to eat.'

They were wrong, of course.

The first poem in the world was 'I want.'"

#a conversation I had with myself in my head #prose #prose poetry #poetic prose #poetry and prose #dark academia #wuthering heights #poetry #academia aesthetic #melancholic #original poetry #original prose #romantic academia #3am conversations #poems on tumblr #poem #poets on tumblr #poetscommunity #dead poets society #lovers #to be loved like this #to be loved by you #love and other things #and love

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Jason Chan

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— Mahmoud Darwish, Another Road in the Road

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It hits me like a freight train every time. I always thought he was beautiful. His hair, his eyes, the shape of his mouth, his jaw. He has the prettiest hands. And he would say the foulest things in the softest, sweetest voice. I loved talking to him. The way he cut me down, the way I called him out. He stole the cosmos for me once. That is our little secret, pressed safe between the pages of a diary hidden away.

I don't recognise him anymore. His mouth is still the same, his eyes are still guarded. But the words he utters are alien. His heart is foreign. He is a stranger wearing the skin of my beloved.

What is it like? To look into a face you remember better than your own and watch it morph into something you could not hope to decipher anymore?

It is like getting hit by a freight train. Every time.

#heartbreak #melancholic #melancholy #old love #soft love #stranger #betrayal #heartache #3am conversations #dark academia #poem #poems on tumblr #academia aesthetic #romantic academia #original prose #poetic prose #poetry and prose #prose poetry #original poetry #heartbroken #help me my heart is breaking #help me my heart is broken #love and other things #beautiful boy

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trying to get back to painting, ah yo.

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“I’m full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.”

— Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro. (via wordsnquotes)

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dew on grass, tastes like myth and magic and music unsung

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I’m losing myself. When people die they sleep more, but there’s fits and starts, bursts of energy, and I thought I was going to be okay, that I could fight my death but I can’t. This is what it looks like when a person is erased. This is a death. One day, everything I ever was will be a faded memory, and I hope it doesn’t hurt to remember that I was once alive

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Ivan Bunin, tr. by Graham Hettlinger, from The collected stories of Ivan Bunin, “Mitya’s love”

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Detail from “Young Girl with a Dove” (1869), by Charles Joshua Chaplin

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is it madness or is it freedom?

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everything washes away until all we're left with is bittersweet reminiscence

nostalgia

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Albert Camus, The Fall