:: poetry :: prose :: yogi ::

memories fade
like ink on paper:
light exposure, the
sun between leaves.
smells dissipate
in rooms
no one goes into,
until they do;
spirit residue.
(drink off drunk
shrug off shrug
love off love)


you faced the wall
I spelt intention
on the back of your neck.


humans are so cute, when we say goodbye we put our arms around each other and to show we love someone we bring them flowers. we say hello by holding each other’s hand, and sometimes tiny little dewdrops form in our eyes. for pleasure we listen to arrangements of sounds, press our lips together, smoke dried leaves, get drunk off of old fruit. we’re all just little animals, falling in love and having breakfast beneath billions of stars

(via comespoonme)

flesh, cursed


speak to me
in poetry…
your verisimilitude
alludes me,

your veins depart
an abyss for a kiss,
a fleshly manifestation,
inclinations of starlashes
‘round your eyes,
private moments
memorized in mind—

i ruminate,
marinating in imaginary,
velocities of flesh,
wings tucked…

(via mermaidsbite)

our bodies butterfly

[his smile]
on skin

[the night]
a blanket
of quiet

[our bodies]
of want

on high



stardust falls to earth

turning into morning dew

an amalgam of compounds

to illuminate your view

(Source: splintersandcupcake, via mermaidsbite)

“One day I just woke up and realized that I can’t touch yesterday. So why the heck was I letting it touch me?”

—   Steve Maraboli (via perfect)

(Source: psych-facts, via langleav)

holding hands


if you examine my hands
you know me a writer
natural nails
haphazardly filed
before a date
after late nights writing
chewing words
trying not to bite cuticles
long fingers
slender palming phone
touching glass vibrating
songs of euphonic silence
thrombing in my mind
my psychic device
informed by fingertips


I see you
And I want you,
Your weight on top
Of mine.
And I like it
When you’re sweaty,
I bet you taste
I hear you
And I crave you,
Like sugars
Oh so sweet.
At night I pretend
I have you,
And it makes me
Feel complete.

(via mermaidsbite)

“Is there anything else worth saying?”

—   I love you
—a six word story

“No rose without a thorn. Yes, but many a thorn without a rose.”

—   Arthur Schopenhauer, Studies in Pessimism (via stxxz)

(via whyallcaps)

Power Lines


I float
through minds
winding in-between 
fluid times 


Do be kind

Leave the light on
all the time. 

— Vintage

(via michaelvintage)

follow my lips
along a bloodied road
a red rose
petals plucked
while looking for thorns
looks like roadkill
thrown to the wayside
left for dead