People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow.
I want you to crave me. From my lips, up to my words.
(via midwestern-darling)
my mom bought me a camouflage sweater today and i was like mom why did u do that and she said “so u can go hunting for men”
(via midwestern-darling)
Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as an escape.
(via youngfolksociety)
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.
Robert Fulghum, True Love
(via larmoyante)
(via artfulfairytales)
(via artfulfairytales)
(via artfulfairytales)
They’ve promised that dreams can come true― but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.
The things she most wanted to tell him would lose their meaning the moment she put them into words.
