I keep thinking you already know. I keep thinking I’ve sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind.
I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.
We are two abysses — A well staring at the sky.
The conversation between your fingers and someone else’s skin. This is the most important discussion you can ever have.
I’ll tell everything to you alone, because it’s necessary, because you’re necessary, because tomorrow I’ll fall from the clouds, because tomorrow life will end and begin.
Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via leopoldgursky)
Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it
I think of you often. Especially in the evenings, when I am on the balcony and it’s too dark to write or to do anything but wait for the stars. A time I love. One feels half disembodied, sitting like a shadow at the door of one’s being while the dark tide rises. Then comes the moon, marvellously serene, and small stars, very merry for some reason of their own. It is so easy to forget, in a worldly life, to attend to these miracles.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.