writingsinfullbloom
namewithheld
seeking inspiration in each breath
1875 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
impietient
:O
harunashibasaki
Shibasaki's
forxstboyfriend
honey boba boy
allthegifsyoulovedbefore
gifs gifs gifs
thrpessoas-servicos
THR Pessoas & Serviços
Text
On Memory and Missing
Porque extraño el sonido de tu risa que corta lo que estás diciendo y no puedes culminar tus oraciones (en serio, me gusta, es contagioso).
Me encanta cuando te sorprendes por las pequeñas cosas desde la luz hasta la forma de algo en el firmamento.
Extraño tus silencios reflexivos de lo que digo o lo que pasa, porque me invitas a detenerme y también pensar.
Me hace falta tu aroma y el sabor de tus besos que son solo tuyos y de ahora en adelante llevo sabor a ti.
Extraño tus ocurrencias, locuras y planes. Desde ir a caminar hasta conocer un lugar nuevo.
Todo eso eres y permanece en mí cuando me despido. Ahí vives, en el recuerdo, el perfume que dejas en mi ropa y los sabores de tus besos en mis labios. Cómo no voy a extrañarte? ♥️
She replies:
Extraño los puntos en tus mejillas, la forma en que tus labios se fruncen para recibir los míos, la sal en tu cuello, o la forma en que gimes una invitación a acercarte a partes de tu cuerpo que solo yo he sido invitado a tocar.
Extraño el olor de tu cabello, las formas de tus dedos, la forma en que tus ojos estudian mis pensamientos, el olor de nosotros dos convirtiéndonos en uno ♥️
Extraño tus abrazos, la forma en que me permites descubrirte, la confianza que estamos construyendo y el deseo que seguimos avivando.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
“Los bardos”
Hemos renombrado el mundo.
Las cosas vuelven a tener sentido bajo nuestros verbos.]
Ayer, cuando las aguas bañaban las costas,
y el sol resplandecía, tú y yo, amor mío,
enardecimos un mundo vacío.
Lo encendimos primero con el beso de la mañana.]
Luego lo avivamos la jornada con el roce de los dedos.]
El café entonces adquiría otro sonido,
cómo lo tuvieron las estrellas que bautizamos
con un idioma que solo tú y yo conocemos.
Ahora andamos sobre esta tierra que hacemos vibrar, cantar y abrirse de par en par.
Sobre ella dejas tu huella de sierpe,
sigilosa, intuitiva, tentadora.
Sobre mí te alzas, me enredas y no escapo.
Me pides que te cante y obedezco,
llenando tus labios con nuevos sonidos,
con palabras de mi lengua exótica
que hacen en ti un placer vedado para mortales.
Eres una deidad terrible, porque no hay misericordia una vez que me impregnas
del veneno rojo de tus labios.
Ay, amor mío, suave es la noche que nos cobija,
pero entre nuestros cuerpos arde la flama
de lo divino y lo hermoso.
Con ello hemos reconstruido este mundo,
y con ello también somos uno cuando
decidimos que el lecho es el descanso eterno,
porque allí perecemos para renacer en el cuerpo del otro.]
Ven, acércate a mí negra serpiente de cálidas caderas,]
vacílame con tus juegos, enséñame tu filosofía oriental, sedúceme con tu lengua, regalo de los celestes dioses de eróticos misterios.
Dominemos este realidad que nos pertenece,
podemos rejuvenecer los bosques con nuestros paseos,]
podemos hacer silbar el río con nuestras risas
y podemos alzarnos en lo alto en medio de las sábanas que día tras noche se inundan
de los vocablos que hemos heredado
para así crear esta nueva lengua donde
solo dos se desean y crean…
All that is (un)holy
Sssss is the sound of slither,
a shape that paints the shadow
of our two
bodies intertwined
as one,
a twirling collision, as soft and subtle
as the light that comes to us from galaxies far away — the aftermath of two stars colliding, you and I witness to its splendor
So we retrace that start dust
droplet by droplet shared between our
writhing bodies, on sheets of music and sound: an (un)holy gospel licked
between fingers,
between tongues,
between skin
wet and sticky,
a testament to our molting
of one into another into one
what was once two
a soft and subtle collapsing,
a free falling
into
us
So we pray permission with
twisting sounds,
ssssss is the spelling of sanctuary,
of sensual seduction,
a sacred ritual
as I sanctifyingly sip you down,
wearing your body like a crown,
your moans an ornament to my affection
a jewel that shines the stardust we are remembering not to forget
droplet by droplet
I swallow you whole,
two bodies become one,
become two stars colliding
witnessing eachothers splendor
here and now
droplet by droplet
dust to dust
0 notes
Photo
All the forms of submission to myself. Sometimes it is so hard to bow to the lows within//
Magali Cazo
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
I love you so much angel. Last night and always I was thinking of you and how lucky I am that you are in my life. I thought about that story of your mom and dad and the homeless guy, and all of them opening up their hearts to this stranger and just listening when they have so much pain to. And you also are that, like you said, you learned it from them. And I think now you are doing the same. And that ability, just to listen without judgement and getting caught in the suffering is almost impossible because you are a part of it. But the difference between you and most other people, I have found, is that you continue. And deep down you know that you are planting seeds for the healing, which will take a very long time and make take generations we don’t know. I’m writing this for myself as well right now as I just face the darkness loops. And then laughter, short breaks from the pain, the humor that keeps us together, that your parents brought forth to you, sweetness in all that bitterness. Even in my own thesis which has nothing to do with this, but I’m studying the plants bitterness, a bitterness developed as defense and people have used for medicine to take out the bitterness in their lives, to stop the cancer from growing. I think pain and trauma are the same, and now this project you are embarking on is like drinking all that bitter medicine. But I have faith, when I’m sitting with you in your abode of calm in the crazy city, that sweetness is here in the preciousness of our relationships and just bathed in the kindness of your soul, and how you always have the ability to reach in the depths of your be present for others and yourself even in the midst of chaos. Even through the tears and breakdowns, we are there for one another. And I think your parents are an example of that, even if their pain and struggles are different than yours, they are also yours and you chose well. You are the physical and spiritual vessel for this project and we do not know the outcome. All those stories all that pain I truly believe will grow in love and touch the hearts of many, millions. I believe that. But now your are in the thick of it, under the soil, reaching into depths for your own healing, but mainly for others, because of that drive in you that just keeps reaching up, evolving to the limitless, to the light.
0 notes
Photo
e.e. cummings, from ‘to stand(alone) in some’ (in 95 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962
[Text ID: “ to stand(alone)in some
autumnal afternoon:
breathing a fatal
stillness;”]
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
Dear Flower,
The thing about perennials is that they do not bloom all year; they are often planted sometime in Spring, gestate for months on end and bud only when the temperature and season are most suitable for their delicate unfolding.
Similarly, this year has been just that for you: more gestation, acclimation, growing/shedding/ and letting go than anything else. There have been more downs than ups, more storms than sunshine, more uprooting than grounding.
And yet there is magic in this vulnerability. Because, you see, the re-rooting, grounding and growth are all so necessary to reach full bloom.
You are continuously trying your best to see the beauty in your own unraveling; no matter how short lived your eventual flowering may be, it’s the pain that often colors your world; it’s the thorns that prick and prod your uncomfortable existence into something so beautiful you can hardly touch it; human existence can hardly place its finger on the perfection of this never-ending whirl of chaos that seems to make sense in moments when you least expect it to.
So here’s to that. Here’s to the not knowing — to the witnes(sing), to the lack of (pre)diction, the birth and rebirth of existence. Here’s to (y)our bloom as a process and not a final destination. Happy 31st to you.
1 note
·
View note
Text
Milk sour honey
a fable whispered to you in the night
right before you drift to sleep
A crowd singing of their country’s history
in present day: a celebration of themselves
There are few things we toss and turn over
let this be one -
you and I catching glimpse of moments
where life makes sense
where being is the only thing we can touch
1 note
·
View note
Text
Autumn in Da Lat, Vietnam. Credit to Như Như Ý.
16K notes
·
View notes
Text
Here and Now
4 months of travel spanning 5 countries, 12 cities, 6 couches, 8 boat rides, countless busses, trams, trains and planes all to end up: here and now.
I’ve swam in seas as crystal clear as the sky in Greece, popped champagne bottles at the top of the Eiffel Tower, zip-lined my way through the jungles of Mexico, conquered roller-coasters in California, soaked my soul under sound bowls in Brooklyn, fumbled my way through flirtations in New York City - survived a breakup and lay-off.
I have shed tears of fear, of love, of loss, and laughter. There have been highs and there have been lows. But the one constant I have found unfaltering has been the love and support of friends, the wise words of strangers, the constant flow of coming and going.
And in this all, I have learned for the first time what it is to truly Arrive -
what it is to play witness to all these moments, however unbearable, fleeting, or breathtaking -- without judgment, without holding, without asking for more or less.
I am learning how to just let it be. Let go. Just watch.
There is no knowing where life takes us; stability is an illusion; there is no guarantee what might happen tomorrow, but the one thing that is for certain is how we react -- and this is where I am. I am learning to open my arms and let this freefall take me. I am here and now, with absolute trust that wherever I am is exactly where I need to be.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sometimes I worry you fly too high.
I worry that the swelling at the back of my throat will burst and a flood of salt will wash over me.
I watch you - watch your eyes twitch, your body movements flinch back and forth, your hand hold the bottle tight. You suck your teeth back. Your hair oils.
The lump grows at the back, still waiting for release. Still waiting for forgiveness. Still waiting for the contents in the bottle to solidify.
Still waiting.
Still weight.
2 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Unfold me like clouds never wanting more than to shed their weight.
In the fold, Cormac Powers
33K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Bullet
Hamza stood awaiting the slightest of movements before him. Any shuffle, gust of questionable wind, or creeping footstep was alarm enough to pull the trigger. His breath held itself steady alongside the M21, slick as the black that laid its color to shoulder.
The jungle was dense here. The heat - wet with heaviness; it added a layer of weight below the soldiers’ uniforms.
Close to the jungle floor, the mud was thick with blood. The leaves of what used to be green and luscious forestry was now blown to shreds of Earth attempting slow rebuilding. There were no sounds of birds chirping. No sounds of rattles in the treetops; only breath, only waiting.
In the distance, a small slant-eyed boy, no older than age 8 scurried himself into the center of the road. Behind him, a bamboo hut was slowly burning into itself. The smoke filled the jungle air behind him.
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 1
I ask myself how am I here, again? It seems so familiar, and yet, did this not come to an end a few months ago? No, that was another body, another set of eyes, another heart beat I laid my ear to, night after night, hoping I could change its pace to the beat of mine.
You are unlike the last body. There is nothing to fix here,
and this scares me.
But you are not perfect. I never thought you were, but somehow, as the honeymoon crashes into reality, I am caught in my thoughts of my own fears, my own imperfections, again. Here we are.
The fear of mundane creeps in like the fog along hilltops in Potsdam. I watch as my complacency edges close to my flight for chaos, curiosity, chase. Why is that the second things become stable, I am pulled into a whirlpool of anxiety?
This body wasn’t made to be loved. This body wasn’t made to be accepted as perfection. And yet, here we are again.
1 note
·
View note