You Are A Language I Am No Longer Fluent In But Still Remember How To Read.

Oh to have a love who holds my heart the way he wants to hold my body.

Vitas Luckus (1943-1987) Together | About 1969 | Vintage print |

Dusk getting some snacks from the snack lady.

A Song for the Pyre

One year of joy and two of penance. I hear the birds return, and think of you listening to their call,

I hear those birds before I hear you

trusting it the sound of me, the secret and the truth of me laid bare

to sing for you alone. It was.

All those nights melted into one. All those mornings basking in your soft laughter

as you teased me, teased me, teased me, thinking I’d die before I walked away.

And I did. Oh, how I died.

In the afterlife, a saint calls me a phoenix

and all I can think is, I was reborn in flames but I never sang again.

A playlist that sometimes gets it just right.

My inner introvert is screaming 😂😂😂

Love

PHASES OF THE MOON art by Thiago Corrêa

And as I dig into my daydream about us - I ponder if I could ever share you were you mine to hold. Could I obtain enough time in your arms, open continuing exchange of the lingering gazes we can’t help but share (the ones that feel like oxygen to me) to reach the point of satiated security in “us?”

The knowledge that regardless of what beauty or wave you might wander off in search of, that our connection transcends any threat of permanent disconnection? Knowing that just a hello in your ear would call you back to my bed? Your ears hot between my thighs…

Or would I selfishly gulp from you? Your mouth? Your thoughts? Your beauty? Your laughs? Making up for what now is more time I’ve known the loss of you than I ever knew the love?

I wonder

May 5, 1931 Journals of Anais Nin 1927-1931  [volume 4]