nemophilies:

“If ever I lose my memory of you, walk beside me like a stag; like a bird heard, unseen”

— Anne Michaels, Correspondences

nemophilies:

“Somewhere there is a man who has given away everything and stands in the rain, grateful Somewhere the dead are leaving a sign Somewhere there is a man who meets his late mother in Lisbon Somewhere a man makes soup for the village Somewhere a man tells a woman she is not as alone as she thinks and she understands she is precisely as alone”

— Anne Michaels, from “Somewhere Night is Falling” in All We Saw: Poems

cwote:

“About all you can do in life is be who you are. Some people will love you for you. Most will love you for what you can do for them, and some won’t like you at all.”

— Rita Mae Brown (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

eightiesdyke:

Hozier Has Hands

nemophilies:

“…It frightens me a great deal to see you floating out into a great sea, but I mean to build a ship and bring you back home from your forlornness. But you must also contribute something to that, and not make it too difficult for me. Time and many other things are against us, but we must not let it destroy what we want to salvage from it. / Write to me soon, please, and tell me whether you still want to hear from me, whether you can still accept my tenderness and my love, whether anything else could help you, whether you will still reach for me sometimes and darken me with that heavy dream in which I want to become light.”

— Ingeborg Bachmann to Paul Celan, 24 November 1949 from Correspondence 

nakedy:

“December 24th and we’re through again. This time for good I know because I didn’t throw you out — and anyway we waved. No shoes. No angry doors. We folded clothes and went our separate ways. You left behind that flannel shirt of yours I liked but remembered to take your toothbrush. Where are you tonight? Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again and old ghosts come back home. I’m sitting by the Christmas tree wondering where did we go wrong. Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good. But sometimes there were good times. Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid. There should be stars for great wars like ours. There ought to be awards and plenty of champagne for the survivors. After all the years of degradations, the several holidays of failure, there should be something to commemorate the pain. Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster. Till then, Richard, I wish you well. I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water, and women kinder than I treated you. I forget the reason, but I loved you once, remember? Maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, I’m willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.”

— Sandra Cisneros, “One Last Poem for Richard” (via oofpoetry)

13mo: