sometimes when my brain is congested, it coughs, and words come out.

there is nothing in the dark
except shivering
and pieces of moonlight,
a warmth pressed against
in which
the history of our skin
is rewritten.


i exist
in moonlight
and the fever sighs
of Northern constellations
and breathing
my fingertips.

(Source: thedustdancestoo, via thedustdancestoo)

hot cocoa and a new book.

we are like precipitation
in movements
and temprature falling
through atmosphere
a crystallization
when we love.

ps: i’m writing a novel. 

is it odd that i want to be a forest with you?
secrets and breath
roots drinking from the earth
alive and growing old together
towards the stars
and when we die,
beautiful stories will be printed on our skin.

i am
in your hands,
broken pieces
(of poems
and skin)
a sort of beautiful

and i wished your lips
would keep telling me

there are no instructions
for a storm, (that i know of)
just a frantic falling
of secret languages
(that we try to decipher)
pressed against the walls
of each other,
counting the seconds
between thunder.

i try to use the Force while dodging all the invisible spider webs of death hanging outside…

i’ve come to learn the Force is not strong with me.