When they ask me about my future wife, I always tell them that her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I tell them that she has a walk that can make an atheist believe in God just long enough to say, ‘God damn’. I tell them that if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them that if she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. I tell them that if she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her, cover to cover, hoping to find typos, just so we could both have something to work on, because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be read by someone, praying they will tell us that we make sense? She doesn’t always make sense but I swear to God, her imperfections are the things that I love about her the most. I don’t know when I will be married, I don’t know where I will be married, but I do know this: whenever I’m asked to describe my future wife, I do so as best as I can and every single time, she sounds a lot like you. Every single time, she sounds a lot like you.
--Rudy Francisco, “A Lot Like You” (via yesdarlingido)

(Source: llvnos)

I have something to say
but I can’t say it.

So how about this, instead.
How about I never saw you coming.
Walking through July like
it was a ring of fire and then you.

You in all your morning glory.
You with the lighter fluid in your mouth.
You on my doorstep trying
to sell me a new security system,
smoke in your teeth.

I know the stories. Someone
is always leaving in them, so here,
take a copy of my keys.
Leave your coat. Make this harder
than it has to be. Make this
a disaster because you know I
live for that.

I was napping on the couch when
I dreamed that you got on a plane
and left.

I think it was a nightmare,
at least until you called from the
airport and begged me to come
meet you, then maybe stay forever.
I said yes.

And I know it’s not right,
to say things like this, so I’ll
only say it once.
Listen closely. Are you listening?
Bring your ear to my mouth.

I would follow you anywhere.
I would.
God, I would.
--Caitlyn Siehl, What You’re Not Supposed to Say (via alonesomes)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

--You Are Tired (I Think) (EE Cummings)
The first time he calls you holy,
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised
you into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo
behind his back and
nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he fucks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship and,
oh,
you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips like they
were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers and he
offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him how to hold
your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name.
--PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon (via 5000letters)
Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together?
Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences.
--Emery Allen (via versteur)

(Source: uglypnis)

To Do, Today

- prepare PEARLS case for tomorrow
- fill out new patient forms for back doctor
- fix IRB proposal that is royally fucked for PI that is not paying me
- study new material
- do prereading
- talk to mom on phone for hours about her problems
- want to die
- want to nap
- eat dinner
- schedule 10 million events and 10 million office visits
- this never ends ever 

god i just love sex

When you touch just my ankles, something sizzles
my hair, my lungs.

They tell us about chemistry,
but not about how it comes hand in hand with hunger

not how the shy of another body against yours
will loosen you into boneless

I can barely hold your hand without losing my voice,
God forbid our thighs brush, my cheeks will be wearing red for days

last night I dreamt of you and woke up, gasping
your name like a ghost on my lips

I wonder what will happen when you kiss me.
They’ll be finding my ashes in strange places for days.

--Azra.T “First Love” (via 5000letters)
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