He said that
We can
Still be friends.
But I think
He meant that
We can
Be the kind of
Strangers that share
Silent memories and
A passing smile
Every once in a while.

I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.
Andrea Gibson, Slip Your Mind

(via petrichour)


My only regret is that
I didn’t tell enough people
to fuck off.
My 92 year old grandma 

(via fickle--flesh)



I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.
Hanamoto Hagumi, Honey and Clover 

(via petrichour)


Books fall open, you fall in. When you climb out again, you’re a bit larger than you used to be.
Gregory Maguire

(via seabois)



The sea is emotion incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with words and rejects all shackles. No matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can’t.
Christopher Paolini, Eragon.

Sometimes your heart needs more time to accept what your mind already knows.
Unknown

(via ginmar)


We are so lightly here. It is in love that we are made. In love we disappear.
Leonard Cohen, “Boogie Street”

Instead of ‘complaining’ I prefer to say I’m ‘stating my counterfactual preferences’.
Metaphysics professor

(via ginmar)


Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it.
Jeanette Winterson

(via ginmar)


You are the best part of all the songs I love.
Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You

(via iwillbeyourfairytale)


She may have looked normal on the outside, but once you’d seen her handwriting you knew she was deliciously complicated inside.
Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot 

(via weaverofstars)


I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals.
Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper  (via weaverofstars)

(via weaverofstars)