scarves

gestate, like a
hibernation coming
to an end; and we
stretch our torsos
towards the sun, this
phosphorescence, a long
memory of tallies, muscles 
waking up to the century;
and we are epochs, eons,
eras of eternity, ticks on
the timeline, like an evolution
of ancient discovery; and we are
crean, and shackleton, and perry,
like the viking reds grow up into
a trellis of ivy; and we are rocky,
jagged wind, like a layer of sediment,
an immutable love, points we wouldn’t
change if given a choice, locking them into
our arms without regret; and the avenues
are long and wide, stretch forth like cities to
this mountain gap, ridden, all in time, spellbound,
substrate; and we are sons & daughters, brothers
and sisters, queens & kings of olympus, to find our
desire, complete, like two lives, unique & discreet.

beesandbombs:

flower
“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
— Anaïs Nin (via observando)

(via decadedance)

asolitarycomfort:

Günter Blum