arpista:

How strange it is, to love a person and feel nothing at all. There was this thought, tucked underneath the tips of his fingernails, as potter’s dirt. It was much too late when he let coffee cool, but he spied you striking matches, ever angry at the long line, humidity, taxi drive, and stuffed, smiling people. He was a mug, chipped in various places, with the pictures, faded and stretched as scars. His hands were tied behind his back, but he still marched forth into June. He loved you, but felt not a tug or break in the glass that surrounded you. He gave you his second cup and became a ponderous pincushion for doting fools.

❝ Write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly and tell it as best you can. I’m not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.

❝ So she retreated into herself, rebuilt the damaged pathways of her mind, explored long-unvisited memories, wandered among the trillions of human lives that were open to her observation, read over the libraries of every book known to exist in every language human beings had ever spoken.

❝

We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”

I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.

Let our scars fall in love.

❝ Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and die with their song still inside them

❝ The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places

pavorst:

At the end of a good book I’m always left with this feeling of peeling myself away from this world. This impression of somewhere else just sits on my skin like the creases bedsheets make after a long sleep. It makes me long for just one more chapter. One more story. Something else to tie up the loose ends. But I’m realising that there is a lot of power in pulling myself out of one reality and living outside the edges of the pages sometimes. To think of my own new stories and add to the worlds where I’ve taken refuge. I’ve come to one sort of ending, I guess, in this space. But there will be more. Get ready.

(via pavorst-deactivated20181204)

nemophilies:

“in a dream moths thud into my body / taking me for light”

— Triin Paja, from “Sleeping in a Field,” in Prairie Schooner, Spring 2018

(via an-itinerant-poet)

im-prada–u-nada:

i admire women who could’ve turned cold after everything they’ve been through but still chose love anyway. there’s strength in that.

(via clementinevonradics)

amytavern:

#artinnyc, number 3:

Robert Ryman: Drawings at Pace Gallery

Pictured here: Untitled, 1966, graphite on Chemex coffee filter paper

Thanks for reading.

(via an-itinerant-poet)