And if you don’t love me let me go
I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
"I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again"
Charles Bukowski (via venebelle)
"
And then there are some who
believe that old
relationships can be
revived and made new
again.
But please
if you feel that way
don’t phone
don’t write
don’t arrive.
Charles Bukowski (via sodade)
(Source: gozosa)
For A Better Propaganda: Puddles Gather Beneath Bridges
“I traded in the car -
got new license plates -
replaced the charms that
used to hang from the
rearview mirror. The
headlights found you last
night. Did you know you
smile in your sleep?”
Where am I? What am I doing? What is this place I find myself at, or did it find me? I have stared at its walls, pondered its curves and corners and I find no escape that promises something better than here; only blackholes and arcing tunnels and hallways too narrow for two.
(via yaceface)
(Source: savannah-mary, via yaceface)
because this is what you do. get up.
blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch because the bed
is too empty. watch people scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the ways
it could be worse. it could be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you still
thought maybe. still carried plans
around with you like talismans.
you could have kissed him last night.
could have gone home with him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body. water
hotter than you can stand. sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub. buildings
collapsed into themselves. ribs
caving toward the spine. recite
the strongest poem you know. a spell
against the lonely that gets you
in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.
wonder where the gods are now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this is what you do.
air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.
Marty McConnel, ’Survival Poem #17’,’
I always slept better alone, not accustomed to making allowances for another body - your arm anchoring me to your chest, the heat of your body pressed against my contours and the smell of your skin on mine. You always marvelled at how my small frame could stubbornly contort itself to occupy as much space as possible and I quickly grew to love drifting into the realms of unconsciousness in the cradle of space between your chest and arms. But so much has changed between us and everything we had isn’t. And now we lie side by side with astonishing distance between us and I wonder if you sleep better alone still.
