tokyo-thoughts

[tokyo-thoughts]

Death is jealous of a love like that,

the love where you never wrote me letters

and I kept burning them.

[tokyo-thoughts]

She wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

[tokyo-thoughts]

wake up babe new mitski article that will steal your breath from your chest just dropped

[tokyo-thoughts]

Do you hear the voices of dead lovers inside your brain? Does the vowels ever rott inside the letters, thinking how it's reader got another man? Does it feel like a ritual, to visit old age homes and not have any love letters to give them? Does it hurt to see flower pressed between pages of those letters, the flower that once used to bloom in someone else's backyard?

[tokyo-thoughts]

"a burnt child loves the fire"

~Oscar Wilde, The picture of Dorian Gray

[tokyo-thoughts]

दोपहर की धुप में मेरे बुलाने के लिए

वो तेरा कोठे पे नंगे पांव आना याद है

—Syed Fazl-ul-Hasan's "chupke chupke raat din"

🎥: Pratidwandi (1970, dir. Satyajit Ray)

[tokyo-thoughts]

Gorgeous gorgeous girls romanticize making their parents proud, they want to feel what receiving selflessly feels like. Do I remember coming from school and catch eyes of people at home waiting for me? or mom asking me how my day was or how the new stout principal with a weird moustache had a funny accent? Do i remember having a say in family discussions? No. But I remember being yelled at the moment i came home from school, the spits of manly anger of my emotionally and physically absent dad, all those overcompensations with laughter during a conversation in an attempt to appease others or the early night dinner at the table where my parents on their phones busy boasting about my grades one moment and the next moment grabbing a bite in utter silence; I think you forgot something, I think you forgot to tell you're proud of me.

[tokyo-thoughts]

“i killed a plant once because i gave it too much water. lord, i worry that love is violence.”

— José Olivarez, from “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad It Rains” in Citizen Illegal (Haymarket Books, September 4, 2018)

[tokyo-thoughts]

/hanˈdeˌaɪsˈθiːzɪə/

There's something about

Clutching parts of their hands

Tracing vacant lines filled with

angst of losing them and power of belonging

Feeling the fingertips on skin

Feeling the knife get in

Etching their thumbprint on yours

For wither thy goes, I will too

Like war torn children

with sight of nothingness

For hither I lie forever, so do you

Prod the knob of my knuckles

I'll hold out my hands for you

For holdest I die, thee shall too