From the hollow tree.

I'm a mouthful of fatigue and cunctation.

"She cradled autumn like a precious thing
in the midst of the summer heat.
Where there was everything,
there was nothing.
Where there was nothing,
there was everything.
And she. She took it all in
stride. In one large breath.
It was easy for her, change.
To everyone else it was just
color, but to her it was so
much more. It was shedding
her skin selfishly and without reason.
It was knowing she was just
as beautiful before as she was after.
She was the autumn leaves all
changing at once, and man—
When she fell, she fell gloriously.
But she never did get back up."

Shelby Asquith, Everything Lost Its Shine When She Went Away (via exahele)

(via backshelfpoet)

"❝ My sister told me a soul mate is not the person who makes you the happiest but the one who makes you feel the most, who conducts your heart to bang the loudest, who can drag you giggling with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in. It has always been you. ❞"

— (via teefz)

"I mean, I hope you’re happy,
But the sky is still the sky without you,
And I’m not surprised by that anymore."

Caitlyn Siehl, from This is Not a Love Poem (via 5000letters)

(Source: pukesplatter, via idolikemytoothpaste)

(via fuukc)

"I understand. That’s the trouble. I understand. I’ll understand all the time. All day and all night. Especially all night. I’ll understand. You don’t have to worry about that."

— Ernest Hemingway, Winner Take Nothing (via porcelinas)

(Source: murmurrs, via backshelfpoet)

I feel like I can’t write about you. I can’t write when I’m with you. That isn’t right. This isn’t right.

"

This is the kind of love poem
that cleans my name from between your thighs—
only to lay it back into your mouth gentle and inviting so that I might hear the sound of me from you again soon. Maybe broken, maybe croaked and vulnerable in the quiver of your descent but if I didn’t crack something inside of you between these sheets tonight then clearly I’m not finished yet. I’d like to say that this – this is all rust, all familiar, all been there before and stained-worn over time; but tell me, does it scare you as much as me to say that all I see when I see you is rain? All fresh; all foundation, nothing but tender against my cheek despite the cold. This, this isn’t the love poem that gets dirty, but stands with bare feet in the clinging mud after your dark, lust storm and says I’d love you so hard you’d grow from it. I am transparent for you, all sweaty palms and unlocked knees.

This isn’t the kind of love poem that knows temporary, this isn’t the type of love poem that takes you once and dresses itself up again; this is take me home to your parents and make love to me from across the room over childhood pictures, this is set our past, our broken on fire and slow-dance upon the ashes, this is: if my heart’s more resistant than my core when it comes to letting you in, knock the door down, break the glass in—I dare you, make a mess of me.

"

"This is the Only Love Poem I Know" -valentina thompson (via theseoverusedwords)

(via backshelfpoet)

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

Pride and prejudice by Jane Austen (via quotemybooks)

(via book-hq)

(Source: animeismywhore, via mkbarnett)