you never reallyknow someoneuntil you’ve readwhat they writeat 3 am whenlonelinessconsumes thembut does not destroy them
My favourite poem
She once asked me the name of my favourite poet and I replied God She laughed and played along and asked me which one of his works was my absolute favourite I said it was the one where he wrote her into existence
I saw an angelon the bus,with calligraphy curvesand willowy limbs,and she was beautifuland I wasn’t lustful, or envious,just a happy admirer.Then,she touchedher stomachwith her lady-like hands,and sucked it in.And it broke my heart to thinkthat maybeeven angels cry.
I don’t want to be toldthat the moon is beautifuldespite the factthat it is cratered,I want to be told that the moon is beautiful because of the factthat it is cratered,and that the blinding suncan’t helpbut shine a light on this broken beauty.
“i need to rip your name off my tongue; it no longer tastes sweet.”
“Of course I’m fine. My insides are not made of kindling, keep striking matches beside me, I’m not scared. I don’t fall asl...”
please tell me which part of yourself you hate the most so I know exactly where to plant my lips every time I see you
i tried to write about your eyes but i ran out of clichesi tried to say you plainlybut there wasn’t enough truthwhoever invented this language didn’t anticipate you
“The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it – basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.”