The worst pain is being homesick for arms that don’t want to hold you.
it aches (via confessing-emotions)
19,024 notes
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
Poetry. Prose. Roses. Claude Monet. && Pablo Neruda:
"Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed."
Poetry. Prose. Roses. Claude Monet. && Pablo Neruda:
"Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed."
I promise you joy,
and I promise you sorrow.
A real life is both.Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson
(via tylerknott)
and I promise you sorrow.
A real life is both.Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson
(via tylerknott)
439 notes
Poor and without stars, I am.
In blue shadows, by memory
I understand; not every flower opens. Dorothy Doyle Mienko, closing lines to “While Pondering the Iris of His Eyes,” Tryst (no. 16, June 2006)
In blue shadows, by memory
I understand; not every flower opens. Dorothy Doyle Mienko, closing lines to “While Pondering the Iris of His Eyes,” Tryst (no. 16, June 2006)
6,473 notes