"At all the funerals for love, love had its neat trick of making you mourn it so much, it reappeared."
— Lorrie Moore, from “Real Estate,” Birds of America (via lifeinpoetry)
"I feel utterly in your hands, absolutely defenseless, and for once I shall beg: keep me in your heart or chase me away, but don’t let me cling to love to find out suddenly it is there no more."
— Simone de Beauvoir, from a letter to Nelson Algren (via violentwavesofemotion)
"you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye"
— Margaret Atwood, from Power Politics (via lifeinpoetry)
"And I don’t know,
if we belong together or apart,
except that my soul lingers over the skin of you
and I wonder if I’m ruining all we had,
and had not […]"
— Anne Sexton, from “Waking Alone” (via violentwavesofemotion)
"Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not."
— Donna Tartt, The Secret History (via camilla-macauley)
"El remanso del aire
bajo la rama del eco.
El remanso del agua
bajo fronda de luceros.
El remanso de tu boca
bajo espesura de besos.
The still pool of air
under the branch of echo.
The still pool of water
under a frond of stars.
The still pool of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses."
— Federico García Lorca, from “Variación” (via drakontomalloi)
"…I dream the love is swallowing itself."
— Anne Sexton, from “The Break Away” (via violentwavesofemotion)
"There isn’t anything in this world but mad love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. And of course, no reasonable love. Also there are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. But, who wants easier? We dream of love, we moon about it, thinking of Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen rushing away over the Irish sea, all doom and splendor. Today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun. I called out to him, and he turned. His face was like an empty pot. I remember his tall, pale wife; she died long ago. I remember his daughter-in-law. When she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets. He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea. Oh, how he loved his wife. Oh, how he loved young Barbara. I stood in front of him, not expecting any answer yet not wanting to pass without some greeting. But his face had gone back to whatever he was dreaming. Something touched, me lightly, like a knife-blade. I felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint. Inside I flared hot, then cold. I thought of you. Whom I love madly."
— Mary Oliver, “March, in White Pine (via hiddenshores)
"Take off the signatures, the false
bodies, this love
which does not fit you
This is not a house, there are no doors,
get out while it is
open, while you still can"
— Margaret Atwood, “Hesitations outside the door,” from Power Politics (via lifeinpoetry)