I imagined that you’d miss me, thought
you’d pace your hardwood floor in odd
worn socks, watch the clock sit stuck,

get late to work, type my name caps lock
press and hold shift/break, miss buses, meals
or sit with fork half-way, lost, for minutes,
hours, sleep badly, late, dream chases, shake
send fingers out to pad the pillow, find
my hollow, start awake, roll over, hug a gap,

an ache, take a walk, damp dawn, of course,
wrapped in a mac with the collar up, glimpse
a slice of face, tap a stranger’s back, draw a blank;

as I have. Each time, I run to press your face
to mine, mine, shining with imagined rain.

Kate Clanchy, from “Double Take” (via avvfvl)
Feel Good Inc.
You’ve got a new horizon, it’s ephemeral style.
A melancholy town where we never smile.


Falls Creek Falls, Skamania County, Washington (by Little Lioness)

mostly nature



Falls Creek Falls, Skamania County, Washington (by Little Lioness)

mostly nature
"I don’t know what you call love
When it is ruined by judgement
and longing, but the word must sound
like the passage of time."
"Everyone’s chest
is a living room wall
with awkwardly placed photographs
hiding fist-shaped holes."
Andrea Gibson (via doublehelixnucleotide)
"I don’t want to write that down, but I don’t want to keep it in my head.
There have been whole years where I have been nothing but mean.
I wanna leave behind my shame, cut all my words from a shiny magazine, sleep like a baby, so someone will hear me when I cry, be nothing but honest, and say nothing but, ‘It hurts, it hurts.’"
Andrea Gibson (via kidwithoutclawsss)

Orpheus to Eurydice

I can now go months without remembering you. I’m fine until I get crippled by the thought of you while I’m cleaning out the closet. I think of when you waved, back turned and leaving. You’re not supposed to look back, I knew that. Only, I thought you were right on my heels. I thought I was leading you home. I thought you would follow me through the darkness, that you would be okay once we reached the light. They promised me I could bring you back to me if I kept up the high notes. Don’t look back, you’re not going that way, they said, and I should have listened.

"He is God
in blue jeans. His wife,
a saint. She’ll have his children.
They’ll have his eyes, I have this moment
between the jump and the ground.
I know he doesn’t belong to me.
I am the thief, not the victim. My bed
is an empty ring box, an unmade apology.
When he leaves, I will write my vows
in the tangled sheets.
I will not yearn. I will not mourn.
I’ll hate every man with his name."

Tell me how to live like this, 
with needles in my nervous system, 
with sorrow burrowing into every smile. 

Tell me it will be okay. 

That is, after all, 
what they keep telling me. 

I see shadows and mistake them for friends.
I see my own lack of light. 

Tell me the kitchen sink isn’t leaking
while I go mad counting the drops of water
that threaten to flood the whole house. 

September 1st is my birthday. 
thank you, Clementine. 

September 1st is my birthday. 

thank you, Clementine. 


i feel this on a spiritual level x


i feel this on a spiritual level x


I’m not sure how to get home,
so I’m outside your apartment.
I should tell you, I went
for the double whiskey sour.
and then a few whiskeys more.
I’m still much better at drinking
than stopping, unfortunately.

Earlier they were strippers, oiled
and beautiful, spinning like meat
on a spit. Earlier I thought of you.
How you were far away, where my hand
couldn’t wrap around the curve
of your thigh.

The sidewalks are glittering
from the rain and you are still
beautiful. This is me
throwing pebbles. If you want to,
please let me in.

I want to curl into the sweet expanse
of your back. I want to wake up,
make you coffee, make you laugh,
make myself into the person
who is worthy of you. You
have been strong so much longer
than I’ve been good.

To speak it simply now:
you are the whole of my heart.
You are the choke on my beer.
You are the last voice
before I shuffle off this mortal shitshow.

The constellations whispering to me
there will never be another one
like you. I want it written on my tombstone.
Let our love be how I’m remembered.



The difference between being loved and being fucked is I can’t remember how the first feels. I have a body like an open door. I have a body like an open hand. It is too easy to hold me.

Find me a boy with a heart more hopeful than spun sugar on a hot day, I will teach him to render me meaningless. The whole time, every moment, wishing he’d crack me open, rib by rib, to see how I work. How I bleed…


"Ten Love Letters" - Clementine Von Radics  (via oliver-and-sj)

this is more relevant to my life than most lines of poetry. 

fuck, everything from this woman is relevant to my life.