the word sanctuary

"It is important to die in holy places. That was one of the secrets of the desert."

— Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

(Source: lachantefleurie)

The first time
he looked at her
he felt:

everything will burn

by Anaïs Nin (via champagne)
Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet. by Thích Nhất Hạnh
My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony. by Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via ex-quisite-ly)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via ephemeralsentience)

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, as read by T.S. Eliot at Harvard University in 1947

(Source: horriblybookish, via aculturedcitizen)

4,469 plays

(Source: story-dj, via thejazzloftproject)

her mouth is a cathedral
you go there to confess your sins
and have them forgiven
her thighs are the altar
where you worship her
her hips are holy
when you touch them
you feel cleansed
and full of fire simultaneously
she is a goddess
she is terrifying
with hands like silk and sandpaper
she is the place you go to sin
she is the place you go to repent

someone should have told you
not to love this way
you cannot love people like they
don’t make their own mistakes
some people do not want to be worshipped
some people do not want to
be saviors
some people do not want
to be the place you go to find God

by you cannot love her like she is not a sinner, too (via mashamorevna)

(via rue-des-lys)

Do not try to be pretty. You weren’t meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don’t let anyone ever simplify you to just “pretty.” by Things I Wish My Mother Had Taught Me | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

(via 5000letters)

32. I’m a lover without a lover.
33. I’m lovely and lonely.
34. I belong deeply to myself. by Warsan Shire, excerpt from “34 Excuses For Why We Failed At Love” (via odetofemininity)

(Source: larmoyante, via si-trendafil)

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors, played by somebody I do not know. by John Keats (via misswallflower)

(via si-trendafil)

so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache. by Pablo Neruda (100 Love Sonnets)

(Source: booksandnerds, via aculturedcitizen)

Anyone can grow into something beautiful. by Vanessa Diffenbaugh, The Language of Flowers (via petrichour)

(Source: larmoyante, via petrichour)

I looked at all the trees and didn’t know what to do.

A box made out of leaves.
What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.
I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon.

From the landscape: a sense of scale.
From the dead: a sense of scale.

I turned my back on the story. A sense of superiority.
Everything casts a shadow.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

by Richard Siken"Detail Of The Woods"  (via letters-to-nobody)

(Source: notebookings, via letters-to-nobody)


I want to live like that little fig tree
that sprouted up at the beach last spring
and spread its leaves over the sandy rock.

All summer its stubborn green fruit
(tiny flowers covered with a soft skin)
ripened and grew in the bright salt spray.

The Tree of the Knowledge of Good
and Evil was…


richard silken | little beast
[so it’s summer, so it’s suicide]


richard silken | little beast

[so it’s summer, so it’s suicide]

(via speioritur)