“Fuck. It’s like, when you’re with someone like that, just being together is poetry.” by Delilah Wells (via clavicola)

(via ohdelay)

We stopped running after each other today.
Remember the summer night
you screamed at me to stay
because you couldn’t make me understand
how much love you have left
despite wasting it on another’s hand
and another’s and another’s.

But today as I walked
towards the setting sun alone
I wondered if I’ve exhausted
your dwindling reserves.

Today, the tides shifted to create a sea
between the continents of you and me.

You must nurture the kiss.
Turn out the lights.
Notice how it illuminates the room.
Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses
comes from a special beach.
Place it on the tongue’s pillow, 
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia:
beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I’ll love you through a brick wall kiss. 
Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth, 
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.