You called me after midnight,
must have been three years since
we last spoke
I slowly tried to bring back,
the image of your face
from the memories so old
i tried so hard to follow
but didn't catch the half of
what had gone wrong
I don't know what
I can save you from
And this is how we danced: our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart
there are two headless people building a burning house.
In case of rain, there was always the shotgun
above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only
to beg some god to return the seconds. If not the attic,
the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes.
If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year
is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say:
this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies.
Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue
turning into a tongue.
— “Home Wrecker,” Ocean Vuong (via commovente)
so with all of this Yahoo buying Tumblr crap going on
if we ever need a place to relocate there’s always
— Śrī Swāmī Rāma (via universeobserver)