-Emily Brontë, from “Wuthering Heights”
IT'S SEPTEMBER already, how can i hold my own heart.
Hands are unbearably beautiful. They hold on to things, they let things go.
- Mary Reufle
-Christina Rossetti, from "Echo", The Complete Poems
I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.
Charles Bukowski, Love is a dog from hell
- Carol Rifka Blunt | Tell the wolves I'm home
In all the colours I expected love to be, it was not what I got . I thought love will be the dawn colours. The warmness of orange that at the end of the day being with your lover will ease the scars , the calmness of blue that doesn't matter how complicated the situation is we will get over it , the assurance of lavender that it will all heal, the sweetness of pink that no matter what love will make everything right and even the yellow that doesn't matter what at the end love will win, but for me love was the colour of silver. Too shinny and perfect from afar but from close it was the colour no one will choose. The colour of coldness, the colour which will left you numb. The colour which will leave you in the state of being non-committal.
Brenna twohy from Swallowtell //Sanna Wani, “Who is the Sun, Asking for Sleep?”, My Grief, the Sun // Fortesa Latifi, from The Truth About Grief.
-"Gardening with the Son I Will Never Have", Ocean Vuong, Burnings
12 January. I am traumatized by life.