the heart's pleaYou are the shaft of light warming the floor of a room that has been abandoned for years.the heart's plea by ~Fellawake
I have seen ghosts waltz through galaxies of dust, and I have felt butterfly wings, but never something as spell-bounding
as this.
toying aroundYou upset the bloodtoying around by ~Fellawake
in my veins
and I
half-heartedly
wonder
and wander
about –
See,
you’ve turned the dial
in my back like a wind-up doll’s
and too bad for you
it’s connected to my heart;
so the next time you manifest,
instead of it buzzing
and humming,
it will be expired and
ready for another turn –
but by
someone
else’s
hand.
clavicleI saw the small of your back once,clavicle by ~Fellawake
and it felt like a secret
I wasn’t supposed to hear,
and the problem is
carrying this secret
that doesn’t belong to me –
but still I count on the smaller
half of this wishbone
that maybe your clavicle is
a secret that you might
be willing to tell me
yourself.
cavalcadeI saw the tattoos on your armscavalcade by ~Fellawake
and I felt the weight of the ink,
and I wondered if your lonely nights
were as slow and steady as mine.
but I stopped wondering
when you told me
to quit worrying,
because I was foolish
for thinking
that the weight of your world
rolling down my spine was
the only reason
for the hearts breaking
around us.
(you refused to tell me the truth.)
and I often called you ‘Boy’
because your name
makes that weight
roll so much slower,
(your name is too much like
sweet, acidic poison
dripping down
my ribcage)
and I begin
worrying all over again –
what am I going to do with
our skeletons?
you mig
lemonwe walk down the streetslemon by *antonfrost
of a city named after an emerald.
a breeze floats by
and for a moment your hair lifts off your shoulder.
the way it doesn't touch you,
i want to touch you.
there are traces of lemon in your light,
a vague sense of mint on your fingertips.
the way honey tastes
drifts inside your shirt.
entering the city
walking calmly while the light falls
is like listening to your voice,
like waiting at the bell by the river
for a clamoring to do justice
to the patterns on the water.
the way the bells never end
i want to brush my hand against yours.
the way you drop lemon into your water
i want to live.
You should date a guy who writesDate a guy who writes. Date a guy whose fingers are stained with ink, whose pockets are filled with pens, and whose eyes smile and dance with curiosity. Date a guy who notices things like the colour of your hair and the way you have your coffee, not because he has to, but just because it’s a habit of his to notice things. Date a guy who can barely get around a computer, but is expert with his word processor. It doesn’t matter; he prefers pen and paper anyway.You should date a guy who writes by *BlakeCurran
Find a guy who writes. You’ll find him just outside a library. He’ll like the idea of being outside, on the verge of a thousand worlds, a few steps away. He&rsqu
the science of usacceleration = gravitational pull / massthe science of us by ~SocraticSynapses
You didn’t send my heartbeat into a frenzy the first time I saw you. It was a month or two before I started feeling the little palpitations inside my chest and made sure that my hand accidentally brushed against yours every now and then.
(I wanted to make sure you got used to the feeling of my atoms colliding with yours.)
I told myself it was stupid and simply physical. You weren’t pulling my heart strings, you were toying with my belt buckle by smiling at me across the room and asking me to spend time with you on a Saturday afternoon. I was sold by the time you pulled into my driveway a
ChromesthesiaIChromesthesia by ~kamalaksh
I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge.
II
I have seen the li
Sta.sh
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