This isn't a confession; it's a recipe.

talix18:

cricketcat9:

khymeera:

dingoat:

Still hurts, but enough time’s passed for me to get out this bit of catharsis. I miss my kitty.

I’m not crying, you’re crying

This is about Gremlin, Cricket and Haru. Haru does the sitting.

My mother swears that when one of her cats dies, another one will pick up that one’s behavior. Especially if it’s affectionate behavior.

Sobbing.

fluttering-slips:

Late Night

Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.
I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.
Screw poetry, it’s you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.


Margaret Atwood

(via intothesebonds)

whatrhymeswithwhimsy:

What would you have done if I’d called your bluff,
eyes and lips heavy with desire
and one night, lost my mind,
appeared, beggar-like, at your door?

Even with the heavy insinuation
that I’d look good
in flush symmetry
I think you were
just
fucking
with me.

chantfordarkhours:

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me – the far-off, deeply-felt
landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and
unsuspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods–
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house– , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,–
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and,
startled, gave back my too-sudden image.
Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening…

I still dream of you, sometimes. I wonder how you are and wonder if now you’d tell me the truth, about anything. You have before – but things have changed. Now we have time and space and my words hanging between us.

wordsyoushouldhear:

I have failed you in unspeakable ways. Been afraid when you needed my fearlessness. Been careful where reckless disregard was the truth in my heart. I have been diffident, I have kept my own council, and I always find the words too late when it comes to you.

And I am constant. Too little, too late, but here now, as soon as I could manage. I’m still not fearless, but I’m here telling you I’m scared (and what it cost me). Awkward, embarrassing myself with all these feelings, inarticulate still, and inadequate.