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isabelle // artist of sorts
"   You see, I’ve written a million poems, hoping that somehow, maybe some way, you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me because if you were here, right now, I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to.   "
Rudy Francisco  (via theradicalteen)

(Source: mycasualcannabis, via theradicalteen)

"  

I. Two poets fall in love, and that’s when it gets ugly.

II. We go to dinner. You order the wine, red and burning, and it goes down like blood. We start with Shakespeare, move to Plath. You use alliteration to tell me that I’m ripping out your lungs with my metaphors, and I counteract with a hyperbole, say you’ve clogged my arteries with your similes. Don’t touch me with your dictionary, I want to say. Touch me with your hands.

III. The appetizers arrive. Bread as soft and brown as the flesh of your neck. Move to Emerson. Ask about God. Was Jesus this soft and brown? My Bible never told me about the strength in your apricot arms, your chestnut knuckles, this most divine truth resting under your skin. Move to Whitman. I envy the grass that licks your neck when you tumble down hills and watch the clouds. Touch me with your hands.

IV. The main course is a fawn’s heart seasoned with autumns and breaking. I eat more than you do. Move to Rilke. Write letters. When I tell you about the words, you say that you will die for ink and paper: I want you to break my neck. Move to Allen. Kiss the sunlight. Ask to live. Touch me with your hands.

V. Dessert is your mouth at three a.m., pulled over to the side of an empty, dark highway. Tell me you love me and it goes down like blood. Kiss my hip and it feels like dying. Don’t touch me with your dictionary. Touch me with your hands.

  "
Two Poets Fall In Love, And That’s When It Gets Ugly | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

(via wethinkwedream)