once tamed

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
"Crush," Ada Limón  (via commovente)

(via missinglight)

kevinruss:

Road Fox. New iPhone print on Society6 today.

kevinruss:

Road Fox. New iPhone print on Society6 today.

(via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? Mary Oliver (via arpeggia)

(via saltcaramels)

The sun is perfect and you woke this morning. You have enough language in your mouth to be understood. You have a name, and someone wants to call it. Five fingers on your hand and someone wants to hold it. If we just start there, every beautiful thing that has and will ever exist is possible. If we start there, everything, for a moment, is right in the world. Warsan Shire (via tender)

(Source: jodyphamdraws, via thesensualstarfish)

delpanos:


WINE comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

W.B. Yeats, A Drinking Song

(via normaltd)

metaphorformetaphor:

In your hands, all you’ve lost,
all you’ve touched.
In the angle of your head,
every vow and
broken vow.  In your skin,
every time you were disregarded,
every time you were received.
Sundered, drowsed.  A seeded field,
mossy cleft, tidal pool, milky stem.
The branch that’s released when the bird lifts
or lands.  In a summer kitchen.
On a white winter morning, sunlight across the bed.

—Anne Michaels, from “Last Night’s Moon” in Skin Divers. Bloomsbury Publishing PLC, 1999

(via lakequiet)