In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.

Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?

The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight

About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you

sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.