Beautiful Bengal Cat Suki Adds Magic With Her Dazzling Sea Blue Eyes Against Nature
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Anne Michaels, “The Weight of Oranges”
My cup’s the same sand colour as bread.
Rain’s the same colour of a building across the street,
its torn red dahlias
and ruined a book propped on the sill.
Rain articulates the skins of everything,
pink of bricks from the fire they baked in,
lizard green leaves,
the wrinkled tongues of pine cones.
It’s accurate the way we never are,
bringing out what’s best
without changing a thing.
Rain that makes beds damp,
our room a cave in the morning,
a tent in late afternoon,
ignites the sound of leaves we miss all winter.
The sound that pulled us to bed…
caught in the undertow of wind in wet leaves.
I’m writing in the sound we woke to,
curtains breathing into a half-dark room.
I’m up early now, walking.
Remember our walks, horizons like lips
barely red at dawn,
how kind the distance seemed?
Letters should be written to send news, to say
send me news, to say
meet me at the train station.
Not these dry tears, to honour us like a tomb.
I’m ashamed of our separation.
I wake in the middle of the night and see “shame"
written in the air like a Bible story.
I dreamed my skin was tattooed,
covered with the words that put me here,
covered in sores, in quarantine—and you know what?
I was afraid to light the lamp and look.
Your husband’s a good builder—I burned
every house we had,
with a few words to start the flames.
Words of wood,
they had no power of their own.
“The important” gave them meaning
and humble with gratitude
they exploded in my face.
Now we’re like planets, holding to each other
from a great distance. When we lay down
oceans flexed their green muscles,
life got busy in the other hemisphere,
the globe tilted, bowing to our power!
Now we’re hundreds of miles apart,
our short arms keep us lonely,
no one hears what’s in my head.
I look old. I’m losing my hair.
Where does lost hair go in this world,
lost eyesight, teeth?
We grow old like rivers, get shrunk and doubled over
until we can’t find the mouth of anything.
It’s March, even the birds
don’t know what to do with themselves.
Sometimes I’m certain those who are happy
know one thing more than us… or one thing less.
The only book I’d write again
is our bodies closing together.
That’s the language that stuns,
scars, breathes into you.
Naked, we had voices!
I want you to promise
we’ll see each other again,
you’ll send a letter.
Promise we’ll be lost together
in our forest, pale birches of our legs.
I hear your voice now—I know,
everyone knows promises come from fear.
People don’t live past each other,
you’re always here with me. Sometimes
I pretend you’re in the other room
until it rains… and then
this is the letter I always write:
The letter I write
when they’re keeping me from home.
I smell your supper steaming in the kitchen.
There are paper bags on the table
with their bottoms melted out
by rain and the weight of oranges.
I love that gif of the cat walking though the door with that big ass blanket
“They say the things we fear most have already happened to us, If we go by that, then that means you have already broken my heart, You have already learned all of my secrets, Your mouth has already tasted my tears after a nightmare that’s left me breathless, You have learned the space of my skin and bones, and I have trembled at your touch, You have looked me in the eyes, told me you loved me, and then you have already walked away, If the things we fear most have already happened, then I have already disappointed and failed, and I have already lost you, If the things we fear most have already happened to us, then I’m going to stop fearing them because I’m not letting myself be another pretty laugh in your day or another body that’s slept next to you breathing in tune with your breaths, If the things we fear most have already happened to us, then I refuse to fear any possibility with you that is surrounded by the outcome of waking up and you not being laced like silk between my arms and legs.”
— ARH // I take you seriously when you talk
You have that thing about you, I think it’s your eyes. They kind of say ‘I am here, I exist, loudly’ in such a quiet way. You don’t need to be loud to be noticed. You just exist quietly but noticeably. You are silently loud.
chaotic-mindd (via wnq-writers)
I just want to live with the girl I’m in a committed relationship with, travel with her, go on cute picnics, slow dance the nights away in our living room and never stop falling in love with each other
toboldlylesbian