Love/Lust

samjas: TOO MANY LEVELS OF CUTENESS

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 16:28:16 +0800

samjas:

TOO MANY LEVELS OF CUTENESS

xcorruptedx: Bunny for team cats.

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 16:28:11 +0800

xcorruptedx:

Bunny for team cats.

brightershades: dos hannah.

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 16:26:55 +0800

brightershades:

dos hannah.

"Oh btw, I’m eating one bag of Valentines Kisses and pretending you gave it to me."

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 00:55:00 +0800

“Oh btw, I’m eating one bag of Valentines Kisses and pretending you gave it to me.”

- The boyfriend, naturally. I should really start a blog: “My boyfriend says the darndest things”

I want a Welsh Corgi so bad. This will be my and the...

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 17:48:18 +0800

I want a Welsh Corgi so bad. This will be my and the boyfriend’s family dog.

lovebug: icanread:(via rainier) UH-HUH.

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 16:59:47 +0800

lovebug:

icanread:(via rainier)

UH-HUH.

Tomas came to this conclusion: Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate...

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 18:23:54 +0800

Tomas came to this conclusion: Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).

— Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Even After All this time The sun never says to the earth, “You owe me” Look What happens with a...

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 18:13:13 +0800

Even
After
All this time
The sun never says to the earth,
“You owe me”

Look
What happens
with a love like that

It lights the
whole
sky

— Hafiz

"People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under the illusion that talking..."

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 15:21:38 +0800

“People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart listens.”

- Theodore Dreiser

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry,..."

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 15:19:41 +0800

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”

- -Oscar Wilde

LIKE, TOTALLY.

i like my body when it is with your

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 15:16:56 +0800

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh … . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new
-e.e. cummings

Liberté, a French textbook by Gretchen Angelo

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 15:12:34 +0800

Liberté, a French textbook by Gretchen Angelo

Belfast Tune

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 14:57:56 +0800

Here’s a girl from a dangerous town
She crops her dark hair short
so that less of her has to frown
when someine gets hurt.

She folds her memories like a parachute.
Dropped, she collects the peat
and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot
here where they eat.

Ah, there’s more sky in these parts than, say,
ground. Hence her voice’s pitch,
and her stare stains your retina like a gray
bulb when you switch

hemispheres, and her knee-length quilt
skirt’s cut to catch the squal,
I dream of her either loved or killed
because the town’s too small

-Joseph Brodsky

You Can't Have It All

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 02:00:00 +0800

But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old
finger

on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,

you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam’s twin is blood.

You can have the skin at the center between a man’s legs,
so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,

glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who’ll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave

where your father wept openly. You can’t bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold
hands

as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be
grateful

for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia,
grateful

for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,

for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot
sand.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,

how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,

until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,

and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,

you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas

your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.

There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,

it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,

but there is this.

-Barbara Ras

tales from a modern relationship

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 20:51:21 +0800

weebleswobble:

even though he hasn’t picked up his phone all day, i know he’s alright because he updated his blog.

Lover: Is there such a thing as cute sex? I have to prepare my pubic bone for you. Coz i know you're gonna beat it up. I beat it up ahead of time.

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 16:08:15 +0800

Lover: Is there such a thing as cute sex? I have to prepare my pubic bone for you. Coz i know you're gonna beat it up. I beat it up ahead of time.
Me: OMG WTF IS THAT HOW IT WORKS?

"I don’t care whatever it takes to be with you."

Mon, 06 Oct 2008 19:21:40 +0800

“I don’t care whatever it takes to be with you.”

- Whatever It Takes, The Faders

Photo

Mon, 06 Oct 2008 19:16:20 +0800

"I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I..."

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 20:19:29 +0800

“I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I could never explain why. Little, nothing touches. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn’t explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds if thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?”

- Jonathan Safran Foer

There was too wide a space between us, awkward and wrong, and it needed to be bridged. Here we are,...

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 15:26:12 +0800

There was too wide a space between us, awkward and wrong, and it needed to be bridged. Here we are, I was thinking, a few inches apart instead of thousands of miles, yet neither of us made an effort to reach out to take the other’s hand. Were we better at loving each other from afar?