My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

Bob Hicok, “Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem”, in Plus Shipping (via hiddenshores)

Apr 23 4:48 with 1,707 notes
As though touching her
might make him known to himself,

as though his hand moving
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country

his hand’s traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand’s setting forth and setting forth.

And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what’s immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
for forgetfulness.
Li-Young Lee, “Dwelling” (via lifeinpoetry)

Apr 22 19:12 with 677 notes
I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all; neither the beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep.
― Charlotte Brontë, Villette (via splitterherzen)

Apr 22 4:48 with 173 notes
For years, mental health professionals taught people that they could be psychologically healthy without social support, that ‘unless you love yourself, no one else will love you…’ The truth is you cannot love yourself unless you have been loved and are loved. The capacity to love cannot be built in isolation.
― Bruce D. Perry, M.D., Ph.D., “The Boy Who Was Raised As A Dog” (via petrichour)

(Source: cockedlockedandchoking)


Apr 21 19:12 with 93,871 notes
Nothing can wear you out like caring about people.
― S.E. Hinton, That Was Then, This Is Now (via bl-ossomed)

(Source: modernmethadone)


Apr 21 9:36 with 190,798 notes
A kiss on the forehead—erases misery.
I kiss your forehead.
A kiss on the eyes—lifts sleeplessness.
I kiss your eyes.
A kiss on the lips—is a drink of water.
I kiss your lips.
A kiss on the forehead—erases memory.
Marina Tsvetaeva, “A Kiss on The Forehead.” (via literarymiscellany)

Apr 21 4:48 with 517 notes
Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness.
― Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband (via proustitute)

Apr 20 9:36 with 704 notes
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