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For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.

You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.

You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

Letter From Anais Nin to Clementine von Radics (via precioushorrors)

(via colourmegreenwich)

I want a night
with you.
I want to close
the curtains.
I want to lay in bed
and feel you breathing.
I want the only noise
to be my inhale
replying to your exhale.
I want to trace my fingers
along every line and curve
of your back.
I want to feel your face
buried into my neck.
I want to lay like this
and feel every worry
melt
the same way that I melt
when I am with you.

(via thatgracelady)