Posts tagged quote.

It doesn’t matter or hurt any less just because you’re 16—love is love, no matter how brief, flawed, or doomed the relationship might be.

Kerry Winfrey (via anendlessendeavor)

Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.

George R. R. Martin (via pavorst)

(via fleurishes)

I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.

Lauren Oliver, Delirium (via joyeuse)

I think books are like people, in the sense that they’ll turn up in your life when you most need them.

Emma Thompson (via theprobablestars)

(via l-amour-fou)

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don’t
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love?

When you’re sixteen it’s easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There’s the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The “we
shouldn’t be doing this” kiss. The “but your lips
taste so good” kiss. The “bury me in an avalanche of tingles” kiss.
The “I wish you’d quit smoking” kiss.
The “I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes” kiss. The “I know
your tongue like the back of my hand” kiss.

As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You’ll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you’d pull over, slide open the mouth’s
red door just to see how it fits. Oh, where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don’t invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It’ll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don’t water the kiss with whiskey.
It’ll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it’ll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you’ll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue’s pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.

But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The “I do” kiss.
The “I’ll love you through a brick wall” kiss.

Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

Jeffrey McDaniel, “The Archipelago of Kisses” (via fleurishes)

ungathering:

I wish I knew the language of hands. There are hundreds of words in the turn of a wrist, thousands in the trembling of fingertips. But there are dozens of interpretations for the clutching of a fist, the stretching of a finger - there are too many exceptions and not enough rules. Syntax and grammar do not exist in the curl of fingers to palm, only a wilder language of thought and feel; there are things that can only be said in the way hands intertwine; there are things that cannot be said at all.

(via fleurishes)

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.

Margaret Atwood (via songsforbirds)

(via fleurishes)

You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,

and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little

different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

“For Grace, After a Party,” Frank O’Hara (via clavicola)

(via fleurishes)

But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing; the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up if you love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky. But believe me— it’s better to look at the sky than to live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear…

Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s (via girlwithoutwings)

(via girlwithoutwings)

What happens if you fall in love with a writer?

karenfelloutofbedagain:

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind. 

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. 

(via fleurishes)

‘I miss you’, he admitted.
‘I’m here’, she said.
‘That’s when I miss you most. When you’re here. When you aren’t here, when you’re just a ghost of the past or a dream from another life, it’s easier then.’

Neil Gaiman, American Gods (via joyeuse)

There’s an opposite to deja vu. They call is jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same people or visit a place, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.

Chuck Palahniuk  (via 24ribs)

(via 24ribs)

(via fleurishes)

Maybe this is why we read, and why in moments of darkness we return to books: to find words for what we already know.

Alberto Manguel (via xenium)

(via deprecatio)

You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won’t mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever.

C. Joybell (via ventriloquistic)

(via deprecatio)