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sexpansion:

René Magritte - The Lovers (1928) X Crystal Castles - Not in Love (2010)

sexpansion:

René Magritte - The Lovers (1928) X Crystal Castles - Not in Love (2010)

(via langleav)

aseaofquotes:

Don DeLillo, White Noise

aseaofquotes:

Don DeLillo, White Noise

"I have no idea how he knows when I need him. We can go days without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tell me my moods are
azure
indigo
cerulean
cobalt
periwinkle
and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky.
He brings the sun."

David Levithan, The Realm of Possibility (via pythons)

(Source: larmoyante, via sylviia)

How This Ends

writingsforwinter:

Regardless of the moon or the owl or the postcard without an address,

I still turn over to the empty side of the bed

like a stone in the pit of the stomach without you here.

And the sun still drains like milk into the bowl of the sky at night

when all I can concentrate…

Poppies. Poppies.

california is full of it: gold. the rush
we get from its luster. it drove men
in droves here. the burning sun
cools itself by dipping into the blue,
that’s golden, too.
the bridge i see on runs and walks.
your hair, your hair, your hair.
the wicked witch knew its power—i sleep
in the…

aseaofquotes:

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

aseaofquotes:

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

(via thesouthernjuliette)

aseaofquotes:

 Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

aseaofquotes:

 Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

How This Ends

writingsforwinter:

Regardless of the moon or the owl or the postcard without an address,

I still turn over to the empty side of the bed

like a stone in the pit of the stomach without you here.

And the sun still drains like milk into the bowl of the sky at night

when all I can concentrate on is the many thousands of places

inside my body I do not speak of, the corners you knew so well

like the back of your own hand.

They ask me how we ended and I want to say we ended like fire,

we ended like rain and the dinosaurs’ extinction,

but deep down inside me like a pulse I know the truth:

we ended because “you and I” were a momentary lapse in judgment,

a wrong stop on the way to home, and we ended

without flame or ado, but in a way as simple

as one plus one equals two.

Someone packed their bags and clothes and returned the key,

and then someone else watched in silence

as they left through the front door

and never came back through.

The Greeks Believed in Apricots as the Cure for Unrequited Love

writingsforwinter:

If I can’t have the boy, at least I can have his clothes.

They leave their sweaters, their jackets, their blue jeans draped

over my bed like petals, filling the bathtub, rising to the surface

of the water like buoys. My therapist once pontificated

that loving someone who is already with another

is misplaced energy. She placed an apricot in my hand

and made me roll it between my palms,

its soft downy skin like velvet across my fingers.

The Ancient Greeks believed that apricot pits

were all the words a dead person meant to say but didn’t,

hardened into a dense stone

hidden deep within that pale orange flesh.

Today, though, desire renders me speechless.

There’s nothing more to say that hasn’t already been said.

When they leave, the boys never exit the normal way:

they have to jump out the window, slide down the roof,

pick the lock on the back door with an extra

bobby pin. Love makes people do strange things.

And the day I held that apricot, I learned

that there’s no room for small talk.

If you love someone, let them know.

Even ghosts have things they wish they’d said.