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Feeling Parisien. 

Feeling Parisien. 




I am not a breath of fresh air, I am not a sight for sore eyes. I am a south paw with right handed scissors. I am the last sliver of soap, a flat tire in November, an empty tank on a cliff. I am unfinished poetry, compulsively impulsed to love. My bones ache with the unrequited. My mirror could tell a thousand tales of criticism, my stomach red with pinches. I am a bottle of prosecco, volcanic and bold. I will love you so deeply the ocean will seem shallow. My heart like a storm, you can feel the thunder in my lips. I am not your morning coffee, I am the last drop of wine.




Let us.

Let us be whole.
Racing across a continent like the vast vacuum of seafoam.
Let us be whole.
I will sink into your heart, floating elegantly like a child in the Dead Sea. Feeling no weight other than than the decompression of salty relief.
Let us be whole.
So that I can dive into the body of water made by bed sheets and body language.
Let us be whole.
So that you can trace our absence with your fingers across the gorges of my two toned foreign skin.
Let us be whole.
Let me kiss you like the first time I tasted red wine.
Let me love you like the first spring bite of a ripe fig.
Let me tumble into your body as if I was a graceful tide. Let us be whole.






The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.

Ernest Hemingway, Men Without Women (via psych-facts)


(via theyallgotkilled)


(via betteryetcrazy)

(Source: justechoesoffthewall)



Even under the light
Of Sunday morning in a crowded grocery store, quiet with indecisive tension, I place my cheek to the pillow of your chest, and it does not feel like enough.

I am exploding with adoration. Itching to crawl into you; to fill your bones with the words I can not verbalize for fear that they will grow stale.

You scare me in ways that put my words into a coma.

The rigid motion of your cheeks as you are drowning in your head beside me on the train. We have 23 minutes left in confinement and I am gagged by the tension.

Softened by my unconditional devotion to you.





Maya Angelou


Maya Angelou

(Source: the60sbazaar)



I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Vincent van Gogh (via wordsnquotes)



My life is a bundle of questions that go something like this: “how much can I work?” “How much can I save?” “Where can I cut corners?”

Saving to go traveling is a lot more stressful than I remembered, and sometimes I think I am forgetting to actually enjoy the fact that I have a ticket to Europe, and that this is really happening. 

Beyond my anxiety and OCD to save, I took my rare and rainy evening off to listen to Bon Iver in my kitchen, prep meals for the week, and remember what I am really grateful for. 

#1 my rad new tattoo 

#2 the wonderfully bearded, open eared and equally as open hearted, loving man lying next to me. 






4 parts love.



We were living in solitary.

Our insides like yellowed flourescent lights.

Our eyes thirsty, and our hands fertile.

We drank IPAs until all the pain came pouring off 

our tongues like rusty water in an old sink.

You thought I was exciting.



I am in denial, so I write.

I write poetry so that I can cloud the fact that my bed now feels

like a coffin without you, and I read your notes and letters and

confessions of affection until I can write another of my own. 

Your caramel eyes fill all my voids with their nurturing reflection.

Your lips taste like beer and honey, and sex with you is like euphoria. 

You text me one night, while we are separated for the holidays,

that you don’t want to be with anyone else. 

I am stung by this. 



I roll over one morning, we are in a blanket of overcast, and I can hear my roommate in the next room turning on and off her alarm.

You are sleeping next to me. And suddenly you are perfect.

I love the way your hair is laced across my pillows.

The aromatic scent of last nights wine leaking from your lips. 

There is no turning back, there is no retreat-this is you, this is him, you are in love, and it is both rejuvenating and terrifying. 

You get too drunk at my birthday and I send you home.

One week later I make you mine. 



Our love grew like the cherry blossoms that sparked outside my window.

Full of body and colour and hope. 

We held hands in a new city.

I realize that I write mostly when I am sad. 

My hands have become gentle. 

My bed still feels like the coffin without you,

and I can’t picture being in the South of France without having someone

to change the street names with. 

Your hips cup my body at night, like the corner of a puzzle. 

I am on the bus, when my dad texts me “that boyfriend of yours is a keeper.”

I smile because I want to drink wine in mason jars, and plan trips to Goa with you for as long as you’d let me. 

How long will you let me? 


if you consider a woman
less pure after you’ve touched her
maybe you should take a look at your hands
(via solacity)

(Source: anachronica)



Words sent to me from my boyfriend on a night apart.

On the quiet fluorescent train ride home alone
The mere hours we spend apart are better described as days
The infatuation has blinded and blurred all sense of time
It isn’t that I haven’t seen you in forever
It’s that any time apart equates to an eternity
Time without you is simply a layover
The waiting for the next stop on this relationship itinerary
The people and places and time passing all blend into a wet cement mixture that we kick our feet out of when we reunite and reignite
This incredible thing we call love.






We Can’t Get Out Of The Bedroom Now.

Shirley Maclaine on Parkinson in 1975

Mind. Blown.

Lately, I’ve learned the power of what it really means to be loved, and adored, and admired, and respected, and cared for. It feels nothing short of empowering, and exciting.

It is important to fall asleep with someone who asks you, voice steady under the sheets, what are the 3 words that describe the very inches of your feelings. And it is very important to wake up to someone who tells you they wouldn’t have it any other way. 

I just want to travel all the continents, and take all the polaroids, and write all the poetry. With you and for you.