new-poets-society:

He was more
museum than man,
which is to say
he was full of
dead things preserved in
glass cages, things
you could see but you
couldn’t quite
touch.

He was like
hints of sunshine
peeking through clouds on
stormy days, somehow
always on the horizon like
no matter how far you drive
you can never quite
get there.

He was something
beautiful and familiar, altogether
wanted and wasted, and I
was never quite
close enough.

–a.j., // dearlittleink

The water calls to me,
saying: Your body is here with us.
Where have you been? We were waiting.

-Gregory Orr, from “The Bridge,” The Caged Owl: New & Selected Poems
(via mirroir)

(Source: lifeinpoetry, via featherumbrellas-deactivated201)

When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value. Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy. Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess. Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust. Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it. Enjoy your body; enjoy your partners’ body. Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure. Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens. Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul. Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair. Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself. Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode. Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless. Save the expectations, take each second as it comes. Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego. Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.

-(via mermaidsongs)

(Source: onedirtydiamond-blog, via fetusslime)

why do poets liken lovers’ eyes to constellations?
 
yours were more like black holes, pulling me into a nightmare that I still can’t wake from.
 
I am trapped here in darkness.

-e.m.b (via poeticallyordinary)

(via poeticallyordinary)

Remember that you were art long before he came to admire you, and you’ll continue to be art even when he’s gone. A masterpiece is still a masterpiece when the lights are off and the room is empty.

-Charlotte Geier (via riversawaken)