My Romanticized Life

Tell her she’s a bluet, but not blue.

And if it’s color that she wants, tell her she’s a blackbird, that she’s flying.
That she could only ever be flying.

If she’s a number, tell her she’s more than ten but less than twelve.
When you say this mean her legs, mean the long number 1’s wrapped around your back.

Tell her you feel most religious when she’s sitting naked in a chair.
Tell her religion is all you need.

Take her hands off your hips and put them on a statue’s hips.
Tell her This is hardness. This is what it’s like to want.

If she’s a herring, tell her she’s a dead herring. That she’s glowing.
That she could only ever be glowing.

And of all shapes: the circle. Days: Tuesday. Words: Brimful

When you take her to bed, take her slowly.
Then put her in parenthesis and keep (her) there, always.”

"How to keep the one you love," Kimberly Grey 

(Source: notebookings, via commovente)

“The dream was gone. Something had been taken from him. In a sort of panic he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to bring up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf-links and the dry sun and the gold color of her neck’s soft down. And her mouth damp to his kisses and her eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness like new fine linen in the morning.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Winter Dreams

(Source: fitzgeraldquotes)

“I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless, and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone, and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.”

— Unknown 

(Source: clementinevonradics, via alethiologyy)