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You miss places that no longer exist, not because of what they were, but because of who you were in them. Which is to say, homesickness is a longing for a version of yourself.

- Ankita Shah

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The Heart Nebula, 7500 light years away from Earth, located in the Perseus Arm of the Galaxy in the constellation Cassiopeia.

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Velimir Khlebnikov, from The Collected Works of Velimir Khlebnikov; “Lyrics,”

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paper doll - flower face

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[I've known grief. I don't] by Gregory Orr

I’ve known grief. I don’t Take it lightly. Know how It gnaws your bones hollow So you’re afraid to stand up, Afraid the lightest wind will Knock you over, blow you away.

But maybe the wind is supposed To blow right through you; Maybe you’re a tree in winter And your poem translates That cold wind into song.

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Morning rubs against the glass, winter- limbed, dry as pleasure.

You, also fresh from sleep, understand the necessity of friction. The parts of me that have held my own scream. The pull of one body in motion into another. Opposite equals. How the actions of lips spark fire and fire kisses to consume until there is no breath left in the room. How flames may be extinguished and rekindled in the darkest of places.

You rub our cold hands together until they are warm, place me above your heart.

[It’s about time somebody loved me right.]

- cora finch

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Charles Bukowski, "assault," from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk through the Fire

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— Brenna Twohy, "I Know It's a Little Late," Forgive Me My Salt (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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María Casares, from a letter to Albert Camus, featured in Correspondance, 1944-1959 (my translation)

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Marguerite Duras, from her novel titled "The Malady of Death," published in 1982

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Nikita Gill, from Your Heart is the Sea: Poems; "Your Heart is the Sea," originally published in 2018

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Mary Oliver, "When Did It Happen?", Felicity

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- Hanif Kureishi, from "The Buddha of Suburbia"

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The Houseguest

by Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello

Forgiveness was sitting in your kitchen when you got home, and now rests elbows on the table to watch you reach for a knife. You scrape the papery skin from a ginger root and slice it into thin coins. You think too hard about which mugs to pull from your cupboard: you might reveal too much; should you offer the one with the uncomfortable handle? Water boils. You divide the ginger evenly into both cups and pour. Spoonful of honey. You stir slowly, eyes down as though you might be able to forget. You stir too long. Forgiveness coughs politely, so you turn, place both mugs on the table, sit. Forgiveness leans forward. You lean back. You have forgotten what it is like to live with someone who eats all your cut watermelon, picks clean the skeletal vine of red grapes, shakes water spots onto your bathroom mirror without wiping them away. What thresholds of welcome have you crossed and recrossed? Most mornings, you listen for the body to move through your house and out the door before leaving your bedroom. Most nights, you ghost around each other without speaking. But now, as the rain drizzles into gloaming, you settle into your chairs, inevitable, a cupful of hesitation finally beginning to loosen your tongues.

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just read “to be loved is to be worth the inconvenience” it blew my mind away