With Nick Pitera taping the pilot for her show at MTV.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
Where I do not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda (via colourcollision)
When I am tired of only touching,
I have a mouth to try to tell you
what, in your arms, is not erased.
I have a mouth to try to tell you
what, in your arms, is not erased.
Mary Szybist (via lunch-poems)
[She] has the elegance of the hedgehog: on the outside, she’s covered in quills, a real fortress, but my gut feeling is that on the inside, she has the same simple refinement as the hedgehog: a deceptively indolent little creature, fiercely solitary-and terribly elegant.
Muriel Bradbury, The Elegance of the Hedgehog (via kaleidoscopedreams)
A Literate Passion: Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
‘I live in solitude,’ he said in the same letter, and though solitude was necessary for a thinker, both philosophers desired a kindred spirit with whom to ‘do philosophy’.
No less than the night’s vault do I adore you,
Vessel of sorrow, O deeply silent one,
And even more I love you, my lovely one,
Because you flee from me and, ornament of my nights,
Ironically you seem to multiply the miles
That separate my arms from blue immensities.
Vessel of sorrow, O deeply silent one,
And even more I love you, my lovely one,
Because you flee from me and, ornament of my nights,
Ironically you seem to multiply the miles
That separate my arms from blue immensities.
C. Baudelaire
This poem is criminally, crushingly good. Metric murder, friends [and foes].
(via aclockwithouthands)
