the labyrinth of the mind

He composes chambers that lead into others that Celia has created. Stairs that wind around her halls.

Leaving spaces open for her to respond

But you didn’t have to cut me off 

Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing

And I don’t even need your love

But you treat me like a stranger and I feel so rough 

We write 

That’s alright

I miss his smell

We speak when spoken to

That suits us well, that suits us well

That suits me well 

(Source: mrgolightly, via falulatonks)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Phil, this wasn’t fucking amateur hour. PEOPLE DIED BECAUSE OF YOUR LACK OF SUPERVISION. THERE WERE RAPTORS ALL UP IN THE KITCHEN PHIL. IN THE GOD DAMN KITCHEN.

YOU HAD ONE JOB PHIL. ONE JOB.

(via hermionestark)

This is my formula for the fall of things:

we come to a river we always knew we’d have to cross.
It ferries the twilight down through fieldworks

of corn and half-blown sunflowers.
The only sounds, one lost cicada calling to itself
and the piping of a bird that will never have a name.

Now tell me there is a pause
where we know there should be an end;
then tell me you too imagined it this way

with our shadows never quite touching the river
and the river never quite reaching the sea.

animalstalkinginallcaps:

YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL, PUFFINS. YOU HAVE THE HAIR OF A KITTEN.

NO, PUFFINS, YOU ARE FALLING APART. YOUR SPLIT ENDS ARE DEVELOPING SPLIT ENDS AND YOUR WHISKERS ARE BENT AND SPINDLY.

DON’T LISTEN TO HER, PUFFINS. LISTEN TO ~ME~. I AM YOUR ~INNER BEAUTY~.

YES, PUFFINS, BUT I AM YOUR OUTER HIDEOUSNESS. LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME.

(Source: nevver, via commanderspock)

(Source: apio, via drunkxabi)