Nobody feels brave until they’ve bled.

dear you #4 - six word reminders (p.b.)
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  • 2 hours ago
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I stood still, vision blurring, and in that moment, I heard my heart break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower’s stem.

Diana Gabaldon, Dragonfly in Amber (via creatingaquietmind)
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  • 6 hours ago
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  • 10 hours ago
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My friend once told me
she liked this guy because of his hands
And I found it absurd that anyone
would develop feelings over one feature,
and not care about the rest

It wasn’t until you used your hands
to cup the back of my neck the first time we kissed
and I could feel your firm grasp pull me closer,
and my insides exploded
and my head buzzed with bliss.

And the first night you slept over,
you fell asleep with your hand
laid over my stomach
and your fingers felt like a fire
that I didn’t mind burning my skin.

The first time we got drunk,
was the first time you played with my hair,
and my god I was hooked,
I’d drink forever if it meant you’d never stop.

And in public you’d hold my hand,
and rub your thumb in little circles
that left me wanting you more,
no matter what you would never let me go,
I was glued to you,
and I honestly didn’t mind

When we talked about breaking up,
you saw my lips quiver with fear,
and you brushed over my lips with your fingers
before pulling me into your lap
and you kissed me like never before.
With your hands on my hips
pulling me so close to you,
leaving no space in between us.
It was then I realized I never wanted you to go

Its now that,
I finally understand why hands
were the only feature that mattered

Hands: Carol Shlyakhova(strong-but-breakable)
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  • 12 hours ago
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  • 17 hours ago
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he said my name the way you might kiss someone.
soft—
delicate—
and then the hissing scrape of a bite against his
lower lip.

“patroclus.”

when he died,
you know,
all the soft things of the world died with him.
there is no starlight.
not anymore.
not for me.

we sat together under the trees and watched as the river
pulled down the sun,
drowning it in glasswater and green reeds and the
clothes we abandoned on the almond tree.
(the flowers are just starting to blossom,
buds clambering for the sunrise with aching petals before tumbling
brushed to the ground by an awry hand.
but i do not mind.
he was reaching for me.)

i could taste the blood on my mouth and the
edge of my own sword
and the clatter of my eyelids with every blink at the light
flashing on armour.

and i am dead.
and you are alive.

you fall like the leaves from the trees,
gently and floating and
red red red
against the ground.
you kissed the battlefield with your teeth
and i kissed you back in the shadows.

drag me down to you by my eyelids,
achilles,
because my hands will be too full of yours to hold on.
clutching and grabbing and
gasping in every breath you let out to make up for
lost time.

[ sit by ships ] a.g.  (via eurvdice)
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  • 19 hours ago
  • 62

They say every atom in our bodies was once part of a star. Maybe I’m not leaving. Maybe I’m going home.

Gattaca, 1997 (via nooneteasessilentbrothers)
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  • 23 hours ago
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Endings are what life cheats us of. As long as a sense of the ending hovers, the story goes on. We close the book, leave the theatre, shut off the screen, and return to the world, bewildered, maybe, but still breathing.

Adam Gopnik on an anatomy of endings. (via newyorker)
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  • 1 day ago
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In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of a day but here is her hand with my future in its palm.

Jeanette Winterson, from Written On The Body (via violentwavesofemotion)
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  • 1 day ago
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He folded his fear into a perfect rose. He held it out in the palm of his hand. She took it from him and put it in her hair.

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things (via larmoyante)
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