solnedgang
franmunier
curse the beauty, curse the queen
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Wonder Boy
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i don’t know what kind of feeling’s burning me
my heart is heavy, it beats loudly whenever i think of him
the memory of his lips on my skin hurts, like a sunburnt after a long day at the beach
and i can’t fall asleep, i can’t feel anything other than the imperious need of feeling him again and, as i close my eyes, that’s when i relive the goosebumps and soft sounds, his and mine, and late summer nights that had us lost in bedsheets, all the words he said and the light caresses on my back or that one hug that made me feel incredibly at peace
my heart is heavy and i almost can’t breathe because i want to tell him, that i miss him and that i’m sorry, that i did not mean a single word, that i want to try and risk it with him, that i want to know what is the first memory of his life, that i want to fall and feel the love, that i don’t care if it won’t be easy and that, yes, i will miss him every day except the weekends and, yes, that i won’t always be able to tell him that i desperately miss him; i want to tell him - again - that i’m scared to care for the people too, and that i’m scared of what i fear i started to feel for him
i can’t almost breathe because i want to kiss him, every time i meet his eyes at the bar
i want to kiss him, to hear him talking about his day and plans, to drink coffee with him in a crowded and noisy place
i want his hugs, i want his comforting tips and his vocal messages and stupid selfies
i want a thousand other photos of the full moon and maybe some of the stars too
i want to touch his dark hair, and feel his skin and burnt wood eyes on mine
and i can’t, can’t fall asleep
i can’t, can’t breathe
i don’t know what kind of feeling is burning me
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“He doesn’t know how to be angry with me either. We are like damp wood that won’t light.”
— Madeline Miller, THE SONG OF ACHILLES
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But I knew you
dancin' in your Levi's
drunk under a streetlight, I
I knew you
hand under my sweatshirt
baby, kiss it better
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The witch has as many moods and as many faces as the moon.
Most of all, she is misunderstood.
Kristen J. Sollée, from “Witches, Sluts, Feminists: Conjuring the Sex Positive,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
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“Whenever you see flies or insects in a still life—a wilted petal, a black spot on the apple—the painter is giving you a secret message. He’s telling you that living things don’t last—it’s all temporary. Death in life. That’s why they’re called natures mortes. Maybe you don’t see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.”
— The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt
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E pagheresti tutti i tuoi giorni di sole per un singolo giorno di pioggia.
Antartide - Pinguini Tattici Nucleari
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“The loves we share with a city are often secret loves.”
— Albert Camus, from The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays; “Summer In Algiers,”
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Inhale and hold the evening in your lungs.
– Sebastian Faulks
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So if you doubt for the time that you’re spending
And if you doubt for the love in your heart
Think of London and the girl you’re returning
And the days you defend will turn to gold
Mumford & Sons, Forever
(via itsthewaitingunknown)
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@seemyparis | instagram
Les Bouquinistes des Quais de Paris
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I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
(via booksqouted)
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Happy International Women’s Day!
“The women we honor today teach us three very important lessons. One, that as women, we must stand up for ourselves. The second, as women, we must stand up for each other. And finally, as women, we must stand up for justice for all.” ― Michelle Obama
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