(via ahuntersheart)

(via thawing)

juilett14:

Of the little things we find in our pockets.
a hand woven Mexican bracelet, cloth,
blue with red inlay pattern. To that beach
in Baja California, with dinner lobsters,
the wooden dolphins, and wine slightly bitter
with the flavor of barrel.
The mattress was too hard, the frame squeaky
and for us it didn’t matter. Salt wind liberates
stiffened joints and fingers its way into your hair.
The beach, broad with coarse sands
and crescent rings of sea foam, an endless curvature
all the way to the silvery North. Our fingers
interlaced and laughed upon each others thighs.
We drew figurines and letters in the grainy sands
stuck to our sea-washed skin. I drew you a flower,
with little elongated petals, like a margarita’s.
You wrote simple equations with letters that
covered a patch of my forearm and washed
all of my heart with small waves that ran a pink
ribbon into all of the tightly capped chambers. 

A hand-stitched and frayed bracelet that my daughter
rummaged from a basket of odd sorted items,
played with, and left on the sill to gather
light.  Now a silver key to southern seas, trilled r’s
and time pitched back, and open, to your salted lips, 
your eyes gathering for the future so many dreams.

We should have more of these odd sorted items,
for of these small stitches, we are made.

 -Santiago 

vulgivagus:

I don’t like to be late. So, I was too early. She’s not right, you know. My mother used to say I’m too hasty. I wasn’t— I am not. I knew when to run and she didn’t. I don’t like to be late. I never did. I parked the car and took my time crossing the street. I was consumed by how cold my neck was. I couldn’t feel my hair, it was running somewhere behind my ears. It was over, the song, before I heard it. I got inside and headed towards the elevator. And that’s when I thought of all the times I was there before, I never looked around. For all that goes on inside, it’s always too quiet. Quiet like a secret, white and blinding. You can’t miss it, the detachment. Everyone thinks they’ve got it bad, that their time is more valuable, that their life is more challenging. I was going to do what I’ve always done, drown my head with a something I’ve missed but I didn’t. I was cold, I looked around instead. There was a rhythm there. There was a time to their chairs. If you looked close enough you’d see it. There were rhythms there. There were tones to their foreheads. They’ve watched their mouths long enough to…

weissewiese:

doki doki · (Japanese) the heartbeat

An extremely small space in time; a lone bird trapped in an airport does not know how to read its way out so it waits; the sound of feet going; as one; a pendulum swings, then slows; the whole valley afloat.

from Stacey Tran, The World Encyclopedia of Ideophones

(via elysskama)