romantic-vp
Seriously.
Never tell anyone in real life what your Tumblr handle is…
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Smiling against each other’s lips is it’s own kind of sweet intimacy
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Mary Shelley was eventually taken by cancer, far away from the crumbled remains of her husband’s heart kept locked in her desk.
Virginia Woolf, weighed down by guilt and pockets full of stones, wrote her poignant farewell; waded into a river and wasn’t found for nearly a month.
Sylvia Plath knelt before an open oven, her children sleeping safely in the next room, turned the gas on and waited for the Owl to release its talons.
There is something painfully beautiful knowing devotion remains long after death, a farewell note can read like a love letter, and the even the darkest of madness has glimmers of clarity and compassion.
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I don’t want blankets . I want you wrapped around me .
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