Grief is more of a public than private event, though Western capitalist myths might have us believing otherwise. Grief demands we expose love, and its immortal, disobedient direction of travel. Poetry, like grief, also risks loving in public. Poems form fascia between the individual and collective body, showing us how we are inextricably bound to each other. Rather than hold grief in isolation, each word pulsates tiny particles of sensation through a shared network of nerve fibre, cord-like tendon and bone. The poem not only operates to embody public revelation, it can reorient us towards the reality of this moment, fizzing our consciousnesses into what we have been refusing to see.

Sanah Ahsan, from her essay "Allowing Our Hearts To Break: Poetry, Our Embodied Method of Resistance", published in Too Little / Too Hard, Issue 2 Winter 2023

Un día le contarás a la gente cómo saliste de aquel océano cuando ni siquiera sabías nadar.

No te rindas jamás. 🏝️

Okay so I know this is off-topic from the fnaf 3 ramble but like…

I’m consumed with the mental image of BTC Springtrap losing himself in a complete breakdown (which occurs somewhat frequently) and Tom just showing him complete unwavering love and respect that ends up comforting him so much more than either of them would’ve thought… augh..

Their friendship means so much to me…

it kinda goes like that...

@ventosdeuminvernofrio

blue diners and old friends

Tu és saudade de domingo que ocupa a semana inteira, e ainda é terça-feira, e eu nem sei onde guardar tanta saudade.

Estou numa crise romântica: não falta amor, falta quem o mereça.

Você beija um monte de bocas, menos a que você queria de verdade. Doeu né?

As vezes eu invento de tomar banho e lavar o cabelo só pra chorar muito, escondido no banheiro.

Isso é questão de perpetuar a cultura dos que tem o coração partido!

As anyone who has known loss understands full well, lack is not in fact, an absence at all. It is a presence. A person we love dies, or leaves, or changes, and a gap forms. It takes on their shape. Mimics their movement. Echoes their voice like a mockingbird. We feel this gap take up space, filling every place our lost one once was, and now isn’t. It reflects in mirrors. Flickers in candle flames. A phantom. Do you believe in ghosts? Of course. I have seen longing grow legs and follow me.

GennaRose Nethercott, from her essay ““A Ghost Is a Memory.” On Bodies, Belief, and the Places Ghost Stories Live”, published in Lit Hub, October 31, 2022

Dejé de quedarme donde no había lugar para mi, de esperar cosas que no iban a llegar y de estar para gente que no lo valía. 🛫

Quando eu vejo nossas fotos antigas eu tenho a sensação que não vivemos tudo que temos que viver, que foi um hiato e não um final.

- Astronauta Bebado

As vezes pagamos, o preço amargo da saudade.

- Gabriela

Se eu soubesse que aquele nosso abraço seria o último, eu teria te dado duas, três ou dez vezes. Eu correria para te abraçar e te apertar tão forte que você não partiria. Mas a gente nunca sabe, né?

Tenho saudades de não parecer uma perda de tempo.