Lovers,Woodstock,1969.

7:59am. did I tell you he’s kept every single one of my love letters in his wallet?

you’re right across the bridge, laying in bed and my hands are shaking from holding back from you so I’ve turned to writing. this is the way I kiss you when you’re gone.

I write so much about love because I’ve lived a life of so devoid of it till now. how can I not write about you? this beautiful break of sunshine in my otherwise cloudy world. how can I not weave through the gardens of poetry trying to pick out the most beautiful bouquet of metaphors for you?

those green eyes in the summertime. clammy hands in the winter. bronze skin shining under the sun like you’re made of gold. tender breathing when you lie next to me. the way the breeze plays with your hair in spring. it seems like the universe loves you just as much as I do.

a conversation with sappho

how tragic we were. my therapist called it abuse last night. I don’t know how I didn’t see it. you would make me go on runs to lose weight and i’d say yes, anything for you. you’d guilt me into fucking you. call me fat and my body less desirable. how tragic it was. how I desperately wanted it to be perfect. how I watched everything we had disappear between my fingertips. I lost a part of me I thought I need. slowly. like baby teeth.

it was for the best. but it sure doesn’t feel like it.

“Someone will tell you that she’s seeing someone someday and that she’s happy and your hands will stop working. You’ll have to work hard to hold onto whatever you’re holding. I hope it’s not glass, I hope it’s not breakable. Suddenly you’ll remember everything that you ever loved about her. Everything that ever moved you to tears, made your insides feel like they were tying themselves into knots. That she was loyal, that she was open for you, that she smiled against your mouth when you kissed. That it felt easy, like God had put the two of you together deliberately, like it had been the plan all along. But for whatever reason, you let her go and you thought that it was the right thing and for a little while, it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing. Except now all the parts of you that touched her knows that you’re never going to be able to touch her again and that hurts. Even your fingers are sad, even your stomach is aching from the loss of it all. You’re never going to get that again and that’s why your regret looks like artwork that would have been masterpiece if you’d finished it. Your regret looks like plucking a flower before it’s bloomed. So maybe you’ll call her and you’ll tell her that you miss her and she’ll sound gentle on the phone but not in love with you anymore. She’ll say ‘we happened and we were important but you let me go, I’m sorry, but you let me go’ and that’s how you’ll know.”

— Azra.T  (via 5000letters)

you are like clockwork, like misguided irony that you can’t yet identify. I see you’re still chasing me though, even if its only subconsciously now. She doesn’t pull off what I am though, and never will. Happy hauntings.

I write about love obsessively but how can I call myself a poet and not find a muse in our love? in your eyes? or in your kisses?

you, my love, are Michaelangelo’s david (your head turned to the sea and your eyes alive, god you are art in the skin of a man), Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa (the way your smile tells me things your words could never, the way I can’t help but stop and stare whenever your lips turn into a crescent moon), Van gogh’s sunflowers (blonde hair and green eyes, the colour palette of a man driven by the madness of love. you should sit in a gallery, honey. you’re the most beautiful thing these eyes ever laid on).

beings like you inspire the most wonderful art. and although i do not create the most beautiful words or the most stunning paintings, I am curled up in the corner thinking of you. and all my fingers can do is write. and write and write.

this is how Michaelangelo felt in the chapel, painting stories of god and trying to bring this divinity to the earth.

this is how da Vinci felt, drawing the smile of a woman he had only seen in passing. her beauty seared her into his brain, how could he not make art out of her face and call it a masterpiece?

and this is how Van Gogh felt, broken by the world but seeing all the wonder of nature in his lover’s eyes, deciding there are good things if only she exists.

you, my dear, are art. nothing less.

You deserve all the happiness in the world, and I’m sorry you deal with so much pain. I love you, and I’m always here for you.

yeah i know u miss me it’s pretty hard to forget an angel

he dreams of wide eyes and rainbow skies, his blonde hair fanned out against the pillow like a crown of gold. my angel, my Icarus, my blue-eyed lover. what must I do to make you stay? how hard must I wish to meet those eyes in the morning?

midnight, baby. I’ll meet you tonight in our dreams. I’ll meet you in the garrets of a fairy palace. I’ll meet you in a field of daisies, a cave of diamonds. I’ll meet you in the nightmares and the dreams. I’ll meet you in the in between.

sleepy eyed lover, with you’re soft hands and marshmallow heart. Aren’t you’re the most beautiful thing this mangled body ever loved.

a love letter as a hug, as your head in my lap, as the romance of room 56, with the lights turned off. there have been so many nights i wished i was crawling into bed beside you, so many late night library sessions where i wished you were across me, eyes glued to your laptop, days where i wished i was reaching across the mattress to rest against your tenderness, the sweet softness of you.