I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what’s called loving, as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.
this is one of my favourite pictures on the entire internet
They had never been closer in their month of love nor communicated more profoundly with one another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Great Gatsby” (via lifeinpoetry)
Brilliant people never think of the lives they smash, being brilliant.
Did I hate him, then? Indeed, I believe so. A love like that can grow to be nine-tenths hatred and still call itself love.
C.S. Lewis, “Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold” (via lifeinpoetry)
I would love to say
weak in the knees
to be quite upfront
make my body
it has knees
I’m in pain because the day is ending and somehow I am never healing.
You are going to break your promise. I understand. And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you.
Catherynne M. Valente, “Deathless” (via saoil)