Let’s say a little kid ran to catch up
with you, he tugged on your arm
"Hey, are you Christmas? Aren’t you
Wouldn’t that be the best thing?
Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
for even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
— e.e. cummings, “53” (via larmoyante)
[But now, I am also learning this: we can be mended.] We mend each other.
— Veronica Roth, from Allegiant (via the-final-sentence)
Who Is You?
Nothing is that soft,
But bitterly tumultuous
Don’t let that be true.
I sometimes think I should
Write about bigger things
In smaller ways.
But really…there’s nothing
More important you.
You are the image of
Everything else, that is the
The yet to be, but now-named.
I keep my elbow against yours
And am comforted.
Real truth and softness.
There is no one more
Important than you.
If there is anything in
what we experience
when we almost find
You. The barest touch
of music, the endless
shores, the bottom of
of the forest. We are
so close to being far
away. If only I could
get there. I can scarcely
but undeniably feel it.
Distance, after all, implies