The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning
as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.
He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,
how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.
Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,
except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,
you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
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By Margaret Atwood. My favorite love poem 🌹
I would like to watch you sleeping,Â
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,Â
sleeping. I would like to sleepÂ
with you, to enterÂ
your sleep as its smooth dark waveÂ
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucentÂ
wavering forest of bluegreen leavesÂ
with its watery sun & three moonsÂ
towards the cave where you must descend,Â
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silverÂ
branch, the small white flower, the oneÂ
word that will protect youÂ
from the grief at the centerÂ
of your dream, from the griefÂ
at the center. I would like to followÂ
you up the long stairwayÂ
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped handsÂ
to where your body liesÂ
beside me, and you enterÂ
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Oct 22, 2024
just found this track on spotify and i think it's just beautiful, speaks about extending yourself to someone and letting fear just be, not letting it control you but not suppressing it either. it really speaks to my life right now, trying to be genuine for someone without overwhelming myself.
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Your fingers laced in mine like five tourniquets,
stopping empty words that flow from my empty nervous lips, your fingers like tourniquets.
I'm enjoying the silence like this, i can hear the sound of your lips as you read me Robert Frost.
And silence cross fades into a bliss that has stuck with me this week, the sound of Frost on your Lips, "Not Even The Rain" you say as you read me E.E. Cummings.
I read Kevin Fitzpatrick yesterday, he talked about reading poems to his partner Tina, she was moving to a farm in Northern Minnesota.
A tourniquet is that look that you give when you're right where you're supposed to be, and i know there's so many places to be. And i've never met someone who is at so many at once, even sometimes gracefully, even sometimes gracefully.
Gracefully, you tell me about New York, gonna see Bruce Springsteen on broadway, i kiss you in some Portland driveway, you say sorry for being so many places at once, you wanna feel grounded with me,
I say i don't wanna be your rock i want to be your sea legs
If you move on will you at least give me a five star yelp review so i can be friends with your friends, my collar for your tears, my sleeve for your snot, a bout of crying as you tell me about fear of loss and giving
which leads to loss
which leads to fear
making it hard to give
your fingers laced in mine like five tourniquets, stopping words that we'd forget, i won't forget that look that you give,
tie it above the wounds, i've had a rough month or two, you're like my sea legs. making out in some Portland Strangers driveway, gettin dizzy as we stumble the long way to my house, the feeling of motion as we lay still in my bed and you read me Frost and Cummings and Elliot, the feeling of motion as i lay still and you show me:
how to put a moment on a page, i hang some pictures up at my new place you light the sage, your spirits lift the room higher and higher i let some dire feelings of loosing you burn with the sage i put you on pages and pages of moments and moments
I got nothing to hide, you tell me about your friend Joseph who see's through peoples lies.
Sometimes you hid behind your eyes
making it much more potent when i see right through them, and i see right through them
I let fear of you moving on burn with the sage, i put silent moments of your tourniquet fingers on the page, and i listen to your breathing and the sounds of kids playing at the school across the street as we lay through the afternoon. My collar for your tears my sleeve for your snot, some happy crying as we leave behind fear of loss, only giving, which led me here, in your arms, without fail, over moments and moments, and pages, and again only moments which lead me here in your
Dec 25, 2024
A strange, unique poem about an under-discussed experience: having a brutal, obscene nightmare then fearing the evil that must be within you to have dreamt it up.
The poem could be additionally interpreted in a direct/clinal way: that it’s about a person who has psychopathic ideation but doesn’t act on it.. or equally that it’s a normal person who is excessively hard on themselves for their ugly feelings.
Such a complex poem! it’s stayed with me since I first read it
Feb 11, 2025
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i listen to this album and after nearly every song think “this is literally the best song ever”
the starting trio of freak/tin man/steamroller is so incredible
Oct 2, 2024
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it's boutta be a donna summer summer
May 28, 2024
first photo in my camera roll, saved from tumblr in 2012. absolute classic and i still think of this all the time
Feb 24, 2025