Vincent van Gogh - Iris (1889) 71 cm × 93 cm

  Van Gogh, Tre paia di scarpe, 1886

Oil painting by Werner Knaupp
"When we touch, your skin tastes like suicide.
This is how I missed the warning signs:
you never asked me what I thought dying was like.
You kept your cut glass hidden well,
but here, with all the empty hands,
I’ve got your ashes in my mouth,
and I hope it is something like sleep.
I hope you did not feel the burning,
the melting knots of the mahogany coffin.
I hope you are somewhere happy now,
where grief does not crack your bones.
This is how I missed the warning signs:
you asked to survive.
I thought life was always there for those who wanted it.
This was nothing beautiful, all the blood turned out
of your body because his hands branded you,
all burnt flesh and heavy sorrow.
This is how I missed the warning signs:
The bullets did not know where you lived, but the knife did.
Metal was the first lover you knew that did not leave you bruised –
without you, I am a shuddering skeleton,
trembling palpitations of a shredded heart.
This is how I missed the warning signs:
I loved you so fiercely that I forgot Death can touch
even the most beautiful things."

for m.n.r | d.a.s

I will miss you, my hazel girl. I hope the hands that hold you now are gentle.

(via backshelfpoet)

I love you and miss you like mad. Rest easy, my handsome angel.


a girl’s feet will tangle yours under sheets you just bought for a night like this. the price tag is still glued to the plastic wrapping stuffed underneath the bed. her feet are frigid and feel like frostbite against your legs when you fall asleep, but they’re like mittens roasted over a fire when the sun blinks through the curtains.

a girl’s legs are taut and thick. they’re flexible and enclose you in a straightjacket at 2 am when they knot around your waist and pull you just a little closer. if she’s still sleeping, it’s even better.

her thighs will make you forget about your calculus homework and your french exam. they will make you forget about your father’s affair or your best friend’s disorders. they will make you forget your name and they will make you forget who you are without them. hold them as tight as you can. i promise, she loves it.

when you were in fourth grade, they taught you stop, drop, and roll at the sign of a fire. when you’re in her bedroom on the second floor, her quivering hips will trick-start a similar fire in your teeth, and you’re going to want to listen to your fourth grade teacher, but don’t. if you stop, whatever it may be that you’re doing, she might kill you.

so in health class, they’re supposed to teach you that your hands will never fit somewhere like they will on a girl’s waist. it doesn’t matter if it’s wide and soft, or small and hard. your hands will adapt to her waist like the heart to your blood. they’ll feel as natural as fingers on an instrument.

sometimes you can see her ribs; sometimes you can’t. they flicker like an old grainy movie under her skin, and they feel like sharp magma in your palms. they’re structure — they protect her. hold her there if you want her to feel like this house isn’t caving in on herself.

her chest. promise her you’d never want anything more or anything less. if you don’t mean it, stop reading, and find someone else.

taste her collarbone. dip in the crevices and valleys and plant trees at the bottom. root down, cherish the nature, and never ever underestimate a girl’s collarbones. they’re a place to sleep when its -11 outside. write scripts on her collarbone. they are forever.

if you don’t know blueprints to her neck with your eyes closed from tracing it with your mouth, you’re doing it wrong. learn it. memorize it. you better know her pulse like counting with your dominant hand. kiss it like it’s her mouth. her neck will change over time, yes. but make sure you can change with it.

kiss her before she brushes her teeth. make fun of her morning breath. kiss her after, and make fun of the flavor of her toothpaste. kiss her when she’s angry and throwing the vase your mother bought her, and kiss her when she can’t stand and she bubbles over with tears like hot water. kiss her if she’s laughing and tell her it’s because she makes you happy. kiss her if she won’t stop talking because you want to taste her voice. kiss her when she isn’t talking because you miss it. kiss her in the shower and kiss her everywhere. if it’s raining, kiss her, and kiss her again when she calls you a cliche. kiss her in public because you want them all to know, and kiss her in private because you don’t need them to either. god, just kiss her on the mouth. nothing else matters. just fucking kiss her.

10 Body Parts || izztstei  (via flannel)

(Source: izzystein, via backshelfpoet)


Early by Martin-Jan van Santen on Flickr.

Claude Monet’s “Misty Morning on the Seine in Blue.”