i wrote the love song with my heart in my mouth, listing the physical details that drew me towards a particular person - the west country girl. it set forth my own personal criteria of beauty, my own particular truth about beauty, as angular, cruel and impoverished as it probably was. it was listing of things i loved, and in truth, a wretched ( Read more... )

the chance to love and be loved exists no matter where you are. i've seen so many people dazed by the idea of romance, believing they're not complete unless they find someone to make their lives whole. when you think about it, isn't that a crazy notion? you, alone, make a whole person. and if you feel incomplete, you alone must fill yourself with ( Read more... )

you're the colour,
you're the movement and the
spin. could it stay with me
the whole day long. fail with
consequence, lose with eloquence
and smile. i'm not in this movie
i'm not in this song. never leave
me paralyzed, love. leave me
hypnotized, love. (the notwist; consequence)

"if i had been watching a black and white film, the directors would have found it hard to create the sense of something as vast and as deep as that which i saw between the two of them. it wasn't what they said to each other. nor the way they looked at one another. it was something intangible, a feeling that whatever it was could not be searched for ( Read more... )

as it has been said:
love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
even a small cough.
even a small love.

anne sexton

i was sitting in the 22nd floor of some expensive restaurant i couldn't quite pronounce, staring the lights of this sleepless city through the uneven glass. the conversation was fading in and out around me. another exam, graduation, the future, vanity, money, another mundane job opening at another mundane prestigious company, another debate ( Read more... )

i miss the old movie theatre two streets down, the one with red seats stained with the perfume of past lovers, caramel and hot popcorn. it played classics; monday night would be cinema paradiso, tuesday was taxi driver and by friday, i would have lived through five centuries, from new york to monte carlo, survived gangsters, ten feet monsters and ( Read more... )

i watch every morning as the postman comes, sometimes cramming the letters in the mailbox, other times leaving them on the doorstep, the ink rain-streaked and illegible. he never looks at me, only past me, surveying the trees and electric wires, picking and rejecting each object as though they played a nameless but crucial part in the grand ( Read more... )