the broken ones

Chelsea gave this to me a few weeks ago, and in infinite lapse I did not shiver out loud for its beauty and message.

thrashing line

my yellow bird has an elephantine memory for the hope that perches here. i am loud when i am cold. i am so unfinished.

i have tried:

I.
I think it's important to give yourself enough time—always more time. Still, we always think we can harry time, hurry, and defy.

II.
Razor sharp of day that lights: this night will be heard.

III.
but sometimes it is nice just to go back and know what is already there, every one we have loved, everything we have made, everything that heats our iron and fills our coats.

IV.
there is some magic to the cold, crystal song, a shivering ink, the charm of city lights flushed golden and alone.

V.
the moment you thought to ignite went more gravel than breath, careful ache. and i still feel the debt. i love you and will give you more. but tonight i am turned out: a bottle of glass slipping through a milky film—her cigarette eyes choking on the streets—this divine speck.

as we groan as do stars

If there plays force within me it is loud and it is love.

i am moving as you shiver so

your golden leaves before the storm, breathing in the rain into your lungs, holding ice in sparking hands, spinning under a midnight bloom, smiling through a bloodied lip, some skin grafts, caught in the awesome eye:

i love you and am dizzied

keep bleeding as you shine

through the warmth of an earth

to moth wing and carpet and bones.

the night smoke

invention yet moves / on arcane strings /
hearts steel / of whisper and din

the moment

That brief walk was one of those moments he knew he'd remember and look back on, one of those moments that he'd try to capture in the stories he told. Nothing was happening, really, but the moment was thick with mattering. 

An Abundance Of Katherines; John Green