" And suddenly, again,
I want the long road of your thigh
under my hand, your well-travelled thigh,
your salt-slicked & come-slicked thigh,
and I want the taste of you, slaking,
under my tongue (that place of riding desire,
my tongue) and I want
all the unnameable, soft, and yielding places,
belly & neck & the place wings would rise from
if we were angels,
and we are, and I want the rising regions of you
shoulder & cock & tongue & breathing &
suddenness of you
all fontanel, all desire, the whole thing beginning
for the first time again, the first,
until I wonder then how is it
we even know which part we are,
even know the ground that lifts us, raucous,
out of ourselves,
as the rising sound of a summer dawn
when all of it joins in. "

the sexual tension between you and someone when you tell them to shutup and they say ‘make me’.

(via coffeestainedheart)


(Source: encoreuneminute, via coffeestainedheart)



Our relationship was a mistake. A perfect mistake.

(via coffeestainedheart)

→ The Sheer Lack Of Existence


I’m made of dreams and memories.
I am made of misheard whispers in the dark.
I am made of glances across crowded rooms.
Of the closeness of strangers in a line outside a movie.
I am made of the corners of your mouth.
I am made of awkward elevator rides and the lack of security one finds on a doorstep, at the end of the evening, when one has enjoyed the company of another.
I am made of the train tracks that take me home.
I am made of ghost notes, from songs you never heard.
So forgive my absence. But I was never really here to begin with, anyway.
-I Wrote This For You