you speak to me in words like whispers; in promises and in laughter and in honesty that rings sweetly in my ears like tiny prayers. i want to carry your stories in my hands and cling to the syllables when i am without the sunlight that sleeps underneath your eyelids.
guide me along the outline of your skeleton, show me the secrets of your limbs. i want to memorize your cadences, your curiosities, the universe kept hidden in your sighs.
you look at me in that way. in this crowd. in this light.
and i wish that i was a clean slate for you. for me. a body without a broken heart. i want to be pardoned of my grievances, my misgivings, the fear that sometimes sits alone in my chest and the delicate thread that binds me to the past.
but there are still bruises underneath my skin. there are colors i can’t be too close to. words i can’t bring myself to hear. memories that rise up in my throat and linger until i can no longer breathe.
and i will hurt your feelings. i will be wild and irrational and a chaotic mess of uncertainty. i will try to be stronger than i am. and i will believe i have no strength at all.
i will want to be the moon, forgetting that i am already the sea.
but you embed your prayers into my lips and i dream the poetry of your heartbeat. i have faith in the miracles that lay anxious and waiting in the veins of your hands.
you are a golden glimmer in the pink-blush sunset sky and the bright moonrise blue of a winter evening. you are perfumed summer air. you are the exhale before the leap. you are mischief, you are magic.
you make me want to stand tall, to soar. let’s delight in the questions and become the answers.
you look at me in earnest, lingering glances. in question marks and exclamation points.
and in this light, i want to love you.
ee cummings (by Christina Penland)
the reckless magic of your mouth.
How can a girl say again, “I do not want to be respectable because respectable girls are not attractive,” and how can she again so wisely arrive at the knowledge that “boys do dance most with the girls they kiss and had asked papa?” Perceiving these things, the Flapper awoke from her lethargy of sub-deb-ism, bobbed her hair, put on her choicest pair of earrings and a great deal of audacity and rouge and went into battle. She flirted because it was fun to flirt and wore a one-piece bathing suit because she had a good figure, she covered her face with powder and paint because she didn’t need it and she refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn’t boring. She was conscious that the things she did were the things she had always wanted to do. Mothers disapproved of their sons taking the Flapper to dances, to teas, to swim and most of all to heart. She had mostly masculine friends, but youth does not need friends — it needs only crowds….
— Excerpt from Zelda’s essay “Eulogy on the Flapper” which was published by Metropolitan Magazine in June 1922. The article was accompanied by a sketch of Zelda done by Gordon Bryant (seen above).
false nostalgia and why i love ye olde time-y things by sarah sophie flicker.
‘fluttering heart, honey-flavoured voice’ - April 20, 2012
“When I was a little boy, it seemed to me that there were many moons. My grandmother had a moon, and my other grandmother had one too. We had a moon over backyard, and my best friend Art had moonlight in his bedroom from his moon. When we visited our relatives in Chicago, I was not surprised to discover their moon. Then one night, as we returned from a visit to my grandmother I watched out of the car’s back window and saw her moon follow us home. Her moon was our moon, there was just one moon! Now the sky seemed so empty.”