I miss you so much. I don’t like this. I don’t like how nothing ever feels as right as everything used to. I hate how we allowed something so tremendously beautiful to become so devastatingly tarnished. I just miss you. I miss your mind, and your body, and your soul.
Every drop in the ocean counts.
June 29, 2010
For the live tracker, please click on the photograph.
“But more wonderful than the lore of old men, and the lore of books, is the secret lore of ocean.” -H.P. Lovecraft
Summer is upon us;
May 12, 2010
And I’m moving on…
Slowly, but surely.
Tomorrow is looking up.
A Woman of Affairs
March 31, 2010
“The mystery surrounding Garbo was as thick as a London fog.” -Tallulah Bankhead
The warm weather makes me feel
March 25, 2010
…like this.
“Oh, my morning’s coming back;
March 24, 2010
the whole world’s waking up.”
Photo Credit: heather_with_lime on flickr
At the bottom of everything, I have never been more excited for Spring.
Upon further illumination,
March 23, 2010
Photo Credit: Isadora Filković
what an unsightly rainbow you are!
In other words, thank you for finally showing your true colors–for that is satisfaction, enough.
Day Old Hate.
March 15, 2010
“Experiencing such a strong desire,
sneaky hands under the blankets.
Long hugs, long stares.”
Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.
“So lets face it, this was never what you wanted,
But I know that its fun to pretend;
Our blank stares and empty threats
Are all I have–
They’re all I have.
So drown me… if you can.
Or we could just have conversation,
and I fall, I fall, I falter.
I found you before I drift away.
Now you still speak of day old hate,
Though your whole world has gone up into flames,
And isn’t it great to find that you’re really worth nothing;
And how safe it is to feel safe.
So drown me and if you can…
Or we could just have conversation,
And I fall, I fall, I falter,
But I found you before I drift away.
The things we do just to stay alive;
The things we do just to keep ourselves alive;”
I don’t even know.
Onward Mother Goose
March 14, 2010
“The Truth the Dead Know”
December 11, 2009
Gone, I say and walk from church
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye, and knucklebone.
Poem by Anne Sexton via The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton
