it’s always a little bit more, or a wee bit less. it’s never just enough.

i don’t even know. i like the idea of something so small but infinite, like slow-burn romances, or being on the road but with nowhere to go. but i want passion as well, the blaze and the heat and the power of the sun, fast as a meteor falling towards the earth, everything fast and boiling hot and red.

there’s never enough.


i’d like to share my favorite poem written by my favorite poet– he manages to encapsulate emotions and circumstances in poetry that without him would still remain unintelligible.

Scheherazade by Richard Siken

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

this post was just an excuse to post this poem.

Just kidding. I love Siken to bits and I would just like to bask in his poetry’s awesomeness forever. I know this poem by heart and it never fails to give me feelings even after millions of re-reads. The persona and I are one– I’m just waiting for my own Scheherazade (person, event, or basically anything).


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