smiles-of-strangers

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Oh no, I’ve gone and said too much

Have tried to caress, but only clutched;

A gilded heart so shy to touch

Oh no, it seems I’ve said too much

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Contents of an unsent letter

B,

Find me under bleachers, between bookshelves, in alleys and under bridges. Find me in trenches and hotel lobbies, in sketchy pubs and uncertain circumstances. Find me anywhere and everywhere, in every life.

In every life, I hope to find you.

-- E

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Let down

The night burns quiet. I steel myself in coldened praise, my breast guarded yet warm to touch. I flash a forming tear. Do you even look? -- Have I shown enough? I am left wanting. 

Draped in velvet, I wear your fires. Your eyes devour, hands sick with hunger. I find your wants, and feed you plenty. You cry for me, I smile meekly. You fall asleep, and I am left wanting.

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Loving you is cruelty

To love you is to love stone and walls and every hard, unyielding thing. My love for you could shift stars, part the heavens, and damn the moon to change the tide... But you are only a dream to me, and bound to be out of reach.

Of all the many things it could do, my love cannot turn your stony form to flesh, or free your beating heart from the depths of my sleep...

Yet now, after all these years, you spite me with supple hands and songs of calling -- songs of want? You remain in your world, wholly occupied by day, but silently denouncing me for seeking love in the flesh? To love you has been tears and choked longing... To love you has meant to love a dream and live away from this world, from life itself...

You have my love, the whole of it, yet still you ask more of me? -- You ask me to stay frozen in limbo, on the brink of your dream to remain at all times within your ever waning reach... What crueller thing could you ever ask of me?

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"Unemployed woman" is out, "Lady of leisure" is in, folks.

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Midsummer Nights Dream, New York City Ballet Production

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RIP by Tomsk

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Sapphic lament

Only a grief stricken heart would know why Such a young bright girl’d be cast to tide-- Thrown herself amid that violent cliffside, I think I know you now, O’Sappho…

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by laurilohi

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He matches your freak, but does he match your depth? Your capacity to hold space for the pains and truths of life? Does he match your hardened, unyielding love for life and this dreadful world, no matter how bleak it's been, or looks at present? Does he match your devotion to life?

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Will o the Wisp, 1888 by Lev Lerch

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moonbows

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and when I looked, the moon had turned to gold

more on my instagram @matialonsor

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Johann Christoph Bayer