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When it is but it aint


Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly. Love sick love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Sea sick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body. Dances wild and walks away, smiling.

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Yrsa Daley-Ward (via yrsadaleyward)

(via lifeinpoetry)

Text

I am always missing something. My sunglasses, my car keys, the lipstick I meant to stow away in my purse and can no longer reapply throughout the day.

The English language seems to flounder at best, sometimes, with all its many words and yet its lack of specificity, of singularity of feeling.

I am always missing something.

Many days it is you. It is the sound of your voice, as plain or as exaggerated as it may seem to any other. Saying nothing in particular. Reading a sentence from the NYT, reading the instructions on a recipe card, repeating my name.

It is the way I feel when I am near you, so different from any other feeling in the presence of any other person - electric, aglow with emotion…but secure, safe, at home.

I am always missing something.

Some days it is my grandparents. It is the chance to speak to them in their native tongue. To hear my grandfather’s war stories firsthand, and not passed down through my mother with the garbled coat of emotion. It is the relatives I could not communicate with, instead nodding silently over glasses of soju and sizzling meats. It is the lullaby my mother used to hum to me in Korean, soothing me to sleep in a way no English words could.

I am always missing something.

Some days it is a former version of myself. Flirting shamelessly and kissing drunkenly in the back of a bar. Breathy whispers on the backs of necks. The wild and cagey morning after; full of endorphins, slinky and provocative, with just a hint of remorse.

I am always missing something.

Some days it is the dog I grew up with. The childhood friend with whom I’ve lost touch. The study abroad trip I turned down for a nightmarish internship. The summer fling I never saw through the fall.

I am always missing things, people, moments in time.

But most days, these days, it is still you.

Photoset

Let’s talk about how everything about the Mindy Project is perfect.

(Source: zangela)

Quote
"Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts."

— Dickens, Charles. Our Mutual Friend. (via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via wordsnquotes)

Photo
portrait of the artist eating 고구마 {and watching Mindy Project [in an old tshirt (on a Sunday afternoon)]}

portrait of the artist eating 고구마 {and watching Mindy Project [in an old tshirt (on a Sunday afternoon)]}

Tags: cute hair gpoy
Photo
hoardingrecipes:

Chewy Ginger Snap Pumpkin-Salted Caramel Ice Cream Sandwiches with Heath Bar Bits
Photo

(Source: ineyesofkim, via uglychu)

Photo
Wearing a slightly damp shirt because I couldn’t be bothered to stay up for the dry cycle last night. But today’s lipstick is “vagabond” and is there any better omen than that?

Wearing a slightly damp shirt because I couldn’t be bothered to stay up for the dry cycle last night. But today’s lipstick is “vagabond” and is there any better omen than that?

Tags: gpoy
Photo

(Source: sheliselikes)

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karolinagolis:

In the fog

karolinagolis:

In the fog