“Some day you’ll be the only face I’ll recognise in the foreign landscapes of my life I’ll be the only one to see you running from the storm on the edge of lightning”

— Kapka Kassabova, from “Storm,” All Roads Lead to the Sea (Auckland University Press, 1997)

Give me the names for things, just give me their real names, Not what we call them, but what They call themselves when no one’s listening–

Charles Wright, from “The Writing Life” in Appalachia (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1998); Worth a reblog for new followers

She talks with wolves, without knowing what sort of beasts they are: Where have you been all my life? they ask. Where have I been all my life? she replies.

Margaret Atwood, from Good Bones and Simple Murders; “Let Us Now Praise Stupid Women,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

someone i used to love once told me i was like the atlantic. but i don’t want to be the ocean, vast and unknowable. i want to be the waves. i want to learn how to break without falling apart.

a.c. | notes to self #11 | check out my chapbook UNMYTHOLOGIZE! (via inkmagician)

WHAT IS THIS PLACE? / Darling, here the gods died. Here the horsemen tremble. Here we bathe in gasoline. / Come, join us in our garden of dead bodies, we’re having fire for lunch.

Earth, 2016. Enjoy your stay. / b.s.h (via adaestra)

Images taken by the International Space Station

images here

                                            I leave this out too                   how I still defend him how a wound                like that           over a decade              becomes a kind of heart

— Hala Alyan, from “Cliffhanger” published in The Offing

MIXED MEDIA INSTALLATION by Ashe Vernon (@latenightcornerstore)

I am made of bullets; shrapnel. You are solar flares and soft lips - better creatures could love you, I know. But now they’ll have to get through me.

my love should wear a warning sign, damn right I remember you     |e.j.| (via ihopewestay)

untitled by Tess Janssen on Flickr.

There was once a very great American surgeon named Halsted. He was married to a nurse. He loved her-immeasurably. One day Halsted noticed that his wife’s hands were chapped and red when she came back from surgery. And so he invented rubber gloves. For her. It is one of the great love stories in medicine. The difference between inspired medicine and uninspired medicine is love. When I met Ana I knew: I loved her to the point of invention.

Sarah Ruhl, The Clean House  (via agooduniverse)

i. you remind me of summer, and everything that is good in the world. july nights and aching hearts, counting the freckles on a lover’s thigh. there is something so tantalizing about watching the light on your face. when it hits just right, i can see the molten gold beneath your skin; it bleeds together your curves and hollows and bird-bone arches. ii. we lie in the grass together, barefoot. when the sun sets, i count the fireflies that come out and make wishes on all of them. laughing, you tell me that’s not what you’re supposed to do, but there is something very beautiful about making dozens of careless wishes, not because i am desperate or begging but because i am happy and the wishes deserve to be heard. iii. for a moment, we are young and living and unafraid even though it is dark out. we are full of firefly wishes and summer constellations as the night air relaxes around us in a sigh. iv. when the seasons change and we wither with the leaves—when i can stand outside with snow falling from a sky the color of nothing, i will remember this. i will whisper to myself, amid the unfamiliar edges of a newly-made world; once, i had an almost-lover like the summer.

i fell in love with a summer night (it made me forget there were four seasons in a year) | e.k. (via midwiinter)

There is a language older by far and deeper than words. It is the language of bodies, of body on body, wind on snow, rain on trees, wave on stone. It is the language of dream, gesture, symbol, memory. We have forgotten this language. We do not even remember that it exists.

Derrick Jensen, from A Language Older Than Words (Chelsea Green, 2004)

Tahir Square in the early hours of the morning - Cairo, Egypt

Oh, little darling, Atlas has nothing on you. You are all old aches and forced bravado, but watch how you sink when no one can see you. You wear the posture of a hundred years– so warped and winded not even the mirror still knows you.

LETTERS TO MY BODY: THE SHOULDERS, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)