Whole grain bagel with mashed avocado, fresh cherries, dark chocolate chips, and raw almonds.
My kind of meal!!
I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
I think we should write more letters about the things that matter, and the things that last. Because by the time the letter arrives and is read, the things that last will still be true. We can chat and email about momentary things, but the forever things we should write letters about, and carve into stone and earth and the walls of our hearts. That way we might forget less easily. Because emails are just bytes and 1s and 0s, and letters are physical. We should create more artifacts of love.
All this naked sky
with your shaking hands,
too afraid to take your coat off.
The array of stars gone shy
under the gaze of seven billion
You undress facing the window.
the moon understands
what it means to feel
exposed; you think
the moon never turns her back
for a reason.
You think the moon
would kiss you like a southern solstice—
peel herself from the sky
and love you for every hour
that the sun’s up.
The array of stars
watch the outline of your naked
body through the glass.
They don’t love you the way
daytime TV says you’re supposed
to want to be loved.
All this naked sky, and
with your shaking ribs,
with your aching hands,
too afraid to love the sunlight.
—Decent Exposure, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
"Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.”
— Virginia Woolf in a letter to Vita Sackville-West (January 1927)