to the woman who keeps flirting with my boyfriend

writingsforwinter:

I’m the only one who knows what his sleepy yawn at four a.m. sounds like

when he wakes up and wants to make love, or how he always greets me

with a bear hug as soon as he sees me. You can’t have the way

the skin of his elbows smells like peaches, or the way my palms

fit so perfectly inside his armpits, like tiny ovens, when my hands are cold;

I remember the first day I caught a glimpse of the back

of his neck, pale and milk-white, just a sliver of it beneath the black

t-shirt, and my heart immediately caught in my throat-

I would staple this love to the clouds if it meant seeing it hang

over me every day-not a storm cloud, those goddamn beautiful

shimmery ones that come right after lightning.

And every time he calls my name in bed, the thunder

crashes so loud even the sound of tsunami waves rolling

against the shore can’t drown it out.

I’ve seen the way you look at him, like a bloodhound thirsting

for its next kill, but let me tell you something:

I have sewn his name, over and over again, into my pockets;

and this thread is stronger than any blood.

You’d have to rip apart heaven and earth just to get

through to that kind of love.

And even jumping off the tallest building in the world

wouldn’t compare to how it felt to fall in love with him-

I don’t have nine lives, like a cat, and I can’t survive

that kind of fall without a parachute or an emergency landing

waiting for me below. You’ll never get those late-night texts

when he’s gone on a business trip and I’m stuck at home

eating ramen noodles out of a carton, the ones that contain

lines sweeter than an entire volume of Pablo Neruda’s love poems.

And you can have these glimpses of him, but not the man himself.

He’s mine, and taking him away from me

would be like pulling the sun away from the earth.

I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. —Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (via attaches)

langleav:

Forget Me Not by Lang Leav. 

bitsndpieces:

“This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon, when things were still good between us, and she embraced me, and we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look for yourself.”

This is my proof, Duane Michals, 1974

Stop thinking about art works as objects, and start thinking about them as triggers for experiences. (Roy Ascott’s phrase.) That solves a lot of problems: we don’t have to argue whether photographs are art, or whether performances are art, or whether Carl Andre’s bricks or Andrew Serranos’s piss or Little Richard’s ‘Long Tall Sally’ are art, because we say, ‘Art is something that happens, a process, not a quality, and all sorts of things can make it happen.’ … [W]hat makes a work of art ‘good’ for you is not something that is already ‘inside’ it, but something that happens inside you — so the value of the work lies in the degree to which it can help you have the kind of experience that you call art. —

Brian Eno (via jessiethatcher)

I could reblog/post this every day as a constant reminder.

(via notational)

And I’m sticking it up here for people who define the “good” in Make good art in ways that I definitely didn’t intend…

(via neil-gaiman)

cocolagoon:

An artist with Alzheimer’s drawing self-portraits.

sad-plath:

(by ИВАН)

weissesrauschen:

unbenannt by maksim hem on Flickr.

The artistic life is a long, lovely suicide. —Oscar Wilde (via tinaroars)