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love poem with apologies for my appearance by Ada Limón

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Newgrange in Ireland - 5,200 year old passage tomb.

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There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.

Virginia Woolf

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get to know me meme >> Favorite Relationships [34?] Kevin & Chiron (Moonlight)

You're the only man who's ever touched me. You're the only one. I haven't really touched anyone since.

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litany for the animals who run from me by Hieu Minh Nguyen

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Is it just me or has a lot of fandom forgotten what "AU" means? It's short for Alternate Universe. I keep seeing people talking about, like, "fake dating AU" or "only one bed AU." Unless your characters exist in a world where a) beds don't exist or b) beds exist in such abundance there could not POSSIBLY be only one of them, that's not an AU. It's just a regular degular story.

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INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE - 1.01 | 2.01

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The Tollund Man

i

Some day I will go to Aarhus* To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap.

In the flat country near by Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle, I will stand a long time. Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him And opened her fen, Those dark juices working Him to a saint's kept body,

Trove of the turfcutters' Honeycombed workings. Now his stained face Reposes at Aarhus.

ii

I could risk blasphemy, Consecrate the cauldron bog Our holy ground and pray Him to make germinate

The scattered, ambushed Flesh of labourers, Stockinged corpses Laid out in the farmyards,

Tell-tale skin and teeth Flecking the sleepers Of four young brothers, trailed For miles along the lines.

iii

Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue.

Out here in Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.

— Seamus Heaney

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Perhaps it was the modesty of the gesture…but in the spring of 1937, one broke through. He had written it himself in the music of the hour. His first composition in 100 years. He had engaged a local record company. And when the musicians they hired proved unsatisfactory, he played all the instruments himself. The audacity of it all was matched only by its sincerity. He had made the near-perfect valentine… with one flaw. One perfectly premeditated flaw. — INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 1.06 | "Like Angels Put in Hell by God"

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fascinating boy

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another wrapped question because why not : what's the 98th song on your playlist and do you actually still like it

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November

by Maggie Dietz

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees. Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage, While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage And gone to shiver in their winter clusters. Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin, Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure: TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four. The hapless customer who'd wanted something Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

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Matthew Dickman, from “I Feel Like the Galaxy,” in Mayakovsky’s Revolver

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December

by Sarah Freligh

On the fire escape, one stupid petunia still blooms, purple trumpet blowing high notes at the sky long after the rest of the band has packed up and gone home.