發熱
☆*✲゚*。(((´♡‿♡`+)))。*゚✲*☆

a more pressing problem for me is that i have never been able to love anyone seriously. i have never felt unconditional love for anyone since the day i was born, never felt that i could give myself completely to that one person. never once.
(1Q84, haruki murakami)
©

Threading the palm, a web of little lines
Spells out the lost money, the heart, the head,
The wagging tounges, the sudden deaths, in signs
We would smooth out, like imprints on a bed,

In signs that can’t be helped, geese heading south,
In signs read anxiously, like breath that clouds
A mirror held to a barely open mouth,
Like telegrams, the gathering of crowds - 

The plane’s X in the sky, spelling disaster;
Before the whistle and hit, a tracer flare;
Before rubble, a hairline crack in plaster
And a housefly’s panicked scribbling on the air.

"Signs" by Gjertrud Schnackenberg

People are weird and beautiful and believe in simple things with desperate honor to superstition. I love how this highlights small moments that mean everything. I’m not usually one for rhyming poems but in this one, I think, rhyming is superstition.


February  7th   ·  reblog